


Endings and Beginnings

by Bamboozlepig



Category: Adam-12
Genre: Adult Situations, Gen, Humor, New Year's story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:32:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamboozlepig/pseuds/Bamboozlepig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the series ended in 1975. Pete Malloy and Jim Reed spend New Year's Eve reminiscing over the past and looking forward to the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endings and Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Adam-12 is the property of MarkVII/Universal, no copyright infringement intended. The song at the end and the Biblical passage are not mine, it is adapted from the Book of Ecclesiastes and from the song by the Byrds. Most of this is now non-canon with my own fanon timeline, as when I wrote this, I didn't realize how many Adam-12 fics I'd wind up doing. **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.**

" _What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." –T.S. Eliot_

_**December 31, 1975…** _

"It's been one helluva year, huh, partner?" asks Jim Reed as he takes a sip from his bottle of beer.

"Indeed it has, Junior," I tell him, taking a sip of my own beer. "Indeed it has."

We are sitting in our comfortably padded deck chairs on the patio in the Reed's backyard, under an inky sky freckled with glinting stars. The moon plays hide-and-seek behind wisps of clouds, and a warm breeze more reminiscent of mid-June instead of December 31 gently rustles the leaves of the trees. A small wooden table sits between us, its top scarred and pocked with cigarette burns and water rings left behind by the previous careless owner. It was a flea-market find and Jim swears that someday he's going to refinish it, restoring it to its former beauty, but I think that'll happen when I grow two more legs. A red metal cooler is underneath the table, filled with ice and cold bottles of Heineken. And a few empty bottles of beer already litter the top of the table, a testament to the fact that Jim Reed and Pete Malloy are quite happily celebrating this New Year's Eve, the first one they've enjoyed having off since forever. It's quite a nice break from the various drunken forms of humanity that surface every year at this time, thus forcing us to arrest them in our usual duty as cops. But that's not the only reason we're celebrating the end of this year. No, there's more to it than just wishing the previous twelve months a fond adieu, so long, auf Wiedersehen, and don't-let-the-door-smack-you-on-your-ass-on-the-way-out. A rather good reason, in fact, one that has thus led to two rather strait-laced cops like Reed and I to celebrate ourselves into minor inebriation. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Reed's already at home, and I've got a designated driver, so who's gonna care? Certainly not us.

"Who'da thunk it?" he asks. "I mean, everything that's happened."

"Yeah, I know," I tell him, tilting my head back to look up at the stars. "Seems like we lived nearly an entire lifetime in just this one year."

"Some of it I could have very happily done without, you know," he says.

"You're telling me," I say dryly. "I think that makes two of us, partner."

The breeze caresses my cheek and it brings with it the sounds of nearby New Year's Eve parties tickling across my ears. Loud, laughing voices, gentle strains of music, and the smell of hickory smoke from a nearby barbecue drifts past. Judy and I, along with our hosts, Jim and Jean, enjoyed a barbecue of our own just a while earlier; t-bone steaks sizzling juicy from the grill, homemade potato salad, devilled eggs, fluffy biscuits dripping with honey and butter, corn-on-the-cob, and homegrown green beans deliciously seasoned with spices, a secret recipe of Jean's. Our culinary feast was topped off by a two-layer, double-chocolate cake, with rich fudge icing. And all that good food has sent Jim and I into a coma of pure utter relaxation. If we get any more relaxed, we'll be nothing but puddles of Malloy and Reed.

From inside the Reed's home, I hear Judy and Jean talking softly as they do up the dishes. Even if Jim and I had wanted to help out with that chore, which we do  _not,_  we would have been chased out of the kitchen post-haste and ordered to stay away. And given Jim's propensity to be a general klutzy disaster as far as kitchen work is concerned, it was probably wise for the women to shoo us out with the assurance that they could handle the dishes quite fine, thank you very much. I hear soft giggles from inside, coming through the open windows, and I assume that they are sharing confidences that only women can share. The house is kid-free for tonight, the kids having been packed up and dispatched off to grandparents or friends. So it is an adults-only evening, something that none of us have enjoyed in quite awhile. And it's nice, very nice.

Jim has run a set of small speakers from his hi-fi out here to the patio. The stereo inside was stacked high with shiny black platters of albums, ranging from rock and roll, to light classical, to easy listening. We've been treated to Elvis Presley and the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart, along with some Lawrence Welk and Guy Lombardo, which I suspect might be Jean's albums instead of Jim's. Right now, Bert Kaempfert is swinging his way through a catchy little tune called "A Swingin' Safari." I've heard it before, and liked it, and I tap my fingers on the armrests of the chair in time to the beat. It's nice that the music of the evening has covered such a wide range of tastes. It's a perfect soundtrack for ringing out the old year and bringing in the new.

Somewhere, maybe about a block and a half away, someone shoots off an M-80, followed by a string of firecrackers. A roman candle soars up into the air, bursting into a bright shower of color before fading away in the darkness. We hear distant cheers. A bottle rocket goes up next, the sharp whistle ending with a loud bang. More cheers and now applause can be heard. There is another boom of an M-80, then a dud of a roman candle goes up and fizzles out without flourish. We can hear catcalls and boos.

"Damned fools," Reed says. "Someone should call the cops. It's not the Fourth of July, it's New Year's Eve."

I look over at him. "We ARE the cops," I say.

"Oh yeah, I forgot," he says. "Feel like going and telling the neighbors to keep it down and quit the fireworks?"

"Hell no," I reply. "I ain't moving from this chair until next Christmas…if even then."

He nods. "Good to know. I'll buy a couple of extra strings of Christmas lights to decorate you with. Do you want solid color ones or multi-colored ones? And do you want ones that flash off and on, or just stay on all the time?"

I think for a moment. "Hmm. Do me up in multi-colored ones that flash off and on. I like a little variety."

"Yeah, well, just don't think I'm going the extra mile and wrapping tinsel around you and sticking a star on your head, Pete," he says.

I smile. "How 'bout an angel?" I ask.

He snorts, shaking his head. "Yeah, right. You're gonna be doing good to get a  _halo_  when you get to Heaven."

"You could get those electric candles that you put in your windows and stick them in my hands."

He thinks. "What color?"

"Uh…blue. I like the blue ones. They're pretty."

"Blue electric candles it is," he says. "What about a wreath?"

I ponder it. "Nah, too scratchy," I say.

"Mistletoe?"

"Are you KIDDING me?" I ask. "I do NOT need everyone kissing me every single time they pass me by. Especially YOU."

"Aww, what's wrong with that?" he asks, sticking his lower lip out in a pout. "Jean doesn't seem to mind my kisses."

I look at him askance. "That's because she's married to ya, pal, she HAS to like your kisses. I'm only your partner and friend, and trust me, there ain't NUTHIN' written in the rule book of the world that says I have to be kissed by you. If your lips get anywhere even CLOSE to me, I swear to God, I will rip them off of your face and feed them to you!"

"Now you've gone and hurt my widdle feelings," he mopes.

"Tough shit. Deal with it," I reply, taking a sip of beer.

"Just for that I won't decorate you with the  _piece de resistance_ , the tweety ball," he says with a huff.

I stare at him. "The  _whatsit_  ball?" I ask. "What in the hell is that?"

He grins. "It's a ball that you hang on the Christmas tree, only it makes a chirping sound, like a bird. You have to plug it in and that, but it's kinda neat. It's like Christmas in the woods."

"Yeah, if Christmas in the woods includes that eight-foot, artificial, pink-flocked monstrosity that you called a tree this year," I say. "All you needed was Liberace holding a candleabra in front of it."

"Hey, don't be mockin' my tree now," he says. "I happen to LIKE it."

"Do you really?" I ask.

"Hell no. It was Jean's idea. She got tired of vaccuming up pine needles from a real tree, so she lobbied for a fake one this year. I thought she'd choose a nice plastic green one, but she picked a pink one instead. Every time I walk in the door, I feel like I'm walking into Christmas in a Barbie freakin' dream house. I half-expect Barbie herself to greet me, in her cute little nurse's uniform or stewardess outfit." He grins rather wickedly. "Not that I'd mind all that much."

"I heard that, James Reed!" shouts Jean through the open kitchen window. "Just for that, you can kiss your private New Year's Day greeting from me sayonara!"

"I love it when you talk dirty to me, honey!" Jim yells back. "And in a foreign language, too!"

From the kitchen, I hear Jean and Judy giggling furiously, and Jim and I aren't far behind. Down the street, another bottle rocket goes up and fizzles out. Farther off in the distance, there is the muted booming and thundering of a larger fireworks display being set off, probably part as a family-oriented celebration in a local park. When they boom again, I scan the sky and find them, a bright pinwheel of color flashing briefly in the darkness. Evidently the crowd down the street has spotted them, too, and are enjoying them much more than their own fizzled disaster of a fireworks display. They hoot and cheer as more pinwheels and waterfalls of color flame up into the black sky.

"Hey, you guys oughta come out and see these fireworks, honey!" Jim calls, his eyes on the pyrotechnics. "They're really pretty!"

"You've seen one, you've seen 'em all!" Jean calls back.

"Then how about coming out here and having our own private display of fireworks?" he yells, looking over his shoulder at the house. "I'm game if you are!"

"Not on your life, James Reed!" she says, coming to the screened patio door. "What would Pete and Judy think?"

He shrugs. "They're adults. We can throw a sheet over Pete so he can't watch. Judy can stay inside." He gives her a leer. "C'mon, sweetie, it'll be fun."

Jean sighs and rolls her eyes. "Honestly, what am I going to do with you, Jim? You're such a teenager sometimes." She slides open the door and steps out onto the patio in her bare feet. Clad in black pedal pushers and a pink top, her auburn hair held back from her face with a pink ribbon, she slips around the glass-topped umbrella table on the patio and approaches Jim's chair. She ruffles his hair with her fingers, then she leans against the side of the chair, her arm draped around Jim's shoulders. He pulls her gently into his lap, running his fingers through her hair. "Jim, stop it," she tells him softly, kissing him on the forehead. "Don't act like an idiot." He tilts her chin down and plants a rather passionate kiss on her lips, one that she doesn't seem to mind all that much. She settles into his arms with a sigh.

I feel Judy slip her arms around my neck as she leans forward over the back of my chair and kisses the top of my head. I reach up and capture one of her hands in mine, lightly caressing the back of it with my thumb. I bring her hand to my lips, kissing it softly. Then I tilt my head back, smiling up at her. "Decided to come out and watch the fireworks anyway, huh?" I ask.

"Which ones?" she replies. "The ones right here or the ones out on the horizon?"

"Preferably the ones on the horizon," I say, a laugh teasing around my voice. "The ones right here are getting a little too mushy for my taste."

"You're just jealous because you don't have a romantic bone in your body, Malloy," Jim informs me. "You need to let a REAL man show you how it's done when it comes to wooing."

"Well, when I find one, I'll be sure and ask him for pointers," I quip, which earns me giggles from Jean and Judy, and a fake-sinister glare from Jim.

"Hey, honey, guess what?" he asks Jean, rubbing her back with his hand. "Pete here is going to be our very own lawn gnome until next Christmas!"

"Ooh!" Jean says, clapping her hands with delight. "Can I make him little holiday outfits throughout the year? I can dress him up as Cupid for Valentine's Day, a leprechaun for St. Patrick's Day, a cute little bunny for Easter, Uncle Sam for the Fourth of July, a pumpkin for Halloween, a turkey for Thanksgiving, and a darling little Santa Claus for Christmas!"

"Get near me with any of those costumes, toots, and I can guarantee you, you'll be mighty damned sorry!" I growl at her.

"Oh my," Jean gasps in mock fright. "Jim, Pete just threatened me. I demand that you arrest him immediately!"

"Well, I would," he drawls laconically. "But that would mean I would have to get up out of my nice, comfy chair, go over there, and put the little silver bracelets on him…and honey, it just ain't worth it. He'd only fight me, wouldn't ya, Pete?"

I nod. "Damn straight. Pete Malloy ain't goin' down without a fight."

"See?" Jim asks her. "Sweetie, I love ya and all, but this is one time I'd say forget it."

"What about Labor Day and Memorial Day?" Judy asks Jean. "What would you dress Pete up as for those holidays?"

Jim looks over at me with a critical eye. "A mattress," he replies, not giving Jean a chance to answer herself.

I stare at him. "What the hell? Why a mattress?" I ask warily.

"Because that's when all the furniture stores hold their big mattress sales. On Memorial Day and Labor Day." He begins choking with laughter at his own joke.

"Oh, Jim," Jean groans. "You're awful."

"Yeah, but ya still love me, dont'cha?" he asks with a silly grin.

"Nope," she replies, to which Jim delivers a firm pinch to her butt. "Ow!" she yelps, leaping up and swatting him. "Stop it!"

Jim reaches out and tries to pinch her again, but she dances merrily away from his grasp. He shakes his head. "Such a stick in the mud," he chides, wagging a finger at her. "No fun at all anymore."

"Maybe you two need to go back to painting bathrooms," I say.

"Yeah," Jim says. "Inhaling paint fumes did wonders for our marriage back then."

"So  _that's_  why you were such a doofus during your rookie year," I say. "Here I thought you were just naturally that way. It's nice to know that Dutch Boy musta had a role in it, too."

A new record album drops onto the hi-fi inside, and soon we are being serenaded by the Starland Vocal Band. "Pineapples in flight," Jim croons badly off-key. "Afternoon delight…ooohh…ooohh…afternoon delight."

I choke on a swallow of beer. "It's skyrockets in flight, you idiot!" I gasp, coughing and laughing at the same time. "Not pineapples in flight!" Worried, Judy pounds my back as I try and hack air into my lungs.

"Hmph," Jim says, sticking his nose up in the air. "I prefer pineapples in flight. I'll thank you to not mock my Starland Vocal Band album."

"Huh," I say, recovering from my beer inhalation. "I woulda guessed it was Jean's album, not yours."

"I happen to like this song," he says haughtily. "It's got a great beat and you can dance to it."

I gaze at him for a beat, then I begin to sing. "Hey, it's Mr. Dick Clark, what a place you've got here! Swell spot, the music's hot here! Best in the East, give it at least a seventy-five!"

Laughing, Jim joins in. "We're goin' hoppin' HOP! We're goin' hoppin today, where things are poppin' POP! the Philadelphia way! We're gonna drop in DROP! On all the music they play on the Bandstand!" we sing, and not very well, either.

Jean has collapsed on the ground beside Jim's chair in giggling hysterics, and Judy has draped herself over the back of my chair, shaking with laughter.

Jim stares at Jean in consternation. "What, you don't like my singing?" he asks.

"Oh, honey," she says, wiping tears from her eyes. She stands up, dusting herself off. "Let's just say that Judy and I hope you and Pete never decide to start your own singing duo. That would be tortuous to the rest of us humans."

"Hey," I say. "I'll have you know that I used to have a very lovely tenor when I was younger."

"What happened?" Jim asks me.

"Puberty," I reply seriously.

"So I guess if we can't be a singing duo, that means no groupies, huh?" Jim asks Jean.

She thinks for a moment. "Well, you two COULD be a singing duo if you wanted, but I don't think I'd count the howling dogs that would gather around you as groupies, honey."

"Holy xylophones, Batman!" Jim exclaims. "I think we just done got insulted on our musical abilities!"

"Or lack thereof, Boy Wonder!" I say. "What evil hath taken over our beloved Gotham City? Why it's…it's…"

"I swear to God, Pete, if you call me the Joker, I'm gonna come over there and slap you one!" Jean warns, shaking her finger at me.

"And I'll help," Judy seconds.

"Drats, women, begone from our visions!" Jim roars. "Thou art bringing thy party down…doobie doo down down, doobie doobie down doobie doo down down…"

"Breaking up is haaa-rrd…to…do!" I join in.

"Doesn't it make you wonder how they manage to get through an entire shift sometimes?" Judy asks Jean. "Without driving Mac or their dispatcher insane?"

"Oh, Mac is our baritone," Jim replies. "And the dispatcher is our back-up singer."

Jean leans down and kisses Jim on the top of his head. "Sweetie, the whole Mormon Tabernacle Choir couldn't sing back-up for you and Pete if their heavenly little voices depended upon it. Let's face it. You and Pete sound like sick whales."

"Wanna play Flipper with me later?" he asks, grinning lasciviously at her.

"Oh brother," she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm going inside and taking Judy with me. Neither of us wants to be exposed to you and Pete's juvenile and degenerate senses of humor."

"I'm not juvenile," I say, grinning at Judy. "Just young at heart."

"And I'm not geden… _hic_ …geden… _hic_ …gedenerate," Jim hiccups. "Just naughty-minded." With that, he belches loudly, the sound fairly echoing across the backyard. "Whoa!" he exclaims with mild surprise. "Another country heard from!" He begins giggling. "Welcome to Burpistan, ladies!"

Jean stares at him for a moment. "All I can say, Jim, is that if it starts coming from the other end, you're sleeping in the garage tonight." With that, she grabs Judy's arm and begins to lead her towards the house. "C'mon," she says. "Let's leave these two yahoos to their own devices. Besides, I've got a couple of new dress patterns I want to show you."

"I'll remember this the next time you want me to kill a spider for ya!" Jim calls. The screen door slides shut with a bang and we're left alone once more. "Coulda stayed and watched the rest of the fireworks with us," he mutters. "Party-poopers."

"In case you haven't noticed, Junior, the fireworks have been over for a few minutes at least," I tell him.

"Drat," he says, taking a swig of beer. "Shore do love me some fiahwoiks," he drawls.

"Fiahwoiks?" I ask. "What are you, the Jewish cowboy?"

"Just call me Irving," he intones. "The hundred-and-forty-second fastest gun…in the west," he sings. He looks over at me. "Ever hear that song?" he asks.

"Yes, and it was done much better than your version," I reply. "But I guess it could be worse. At least you didn't start singing 'The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.'"

"I can if you want me to," he says.

"Oh God, please, no!" I say hastily. "Someone's liable to call the cops on US! They might think there's a sick moose wandering around back here or something."

"Yeah, a moose and a whale," he says. He sticks his tongue out at me. "Moby Dick."

I blow him a raspberry, thumbing my nose at him. "Shut up, Bullwinkle."

"If I'm Bullwinkle, then you're Rocky," he says snidely.

I grin wolfishly at him. "That's right. Rocky's the smart one, pal."

He slaps his forehead. "Oh crap, I forgot," he moans.

I settle back with a chuckle. "You just zinged yourself, partner."

He muses for a minute. "If I could play in a tv show, know what tv show I'd pick?" he asks.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. "Gilligan's Island?" I ask. "You'd make a great Gilligan."

"No, you dratted fool," he says. "Route 66."

"Do tell," I remark. "And by the way, what's up with the word 'dratted' tonight? You got a hang-up on it or something?"

"No," he replies, taking a sip of beer. "I think it sounds dashing and sophisticated."

"Sounds like something Gomer Pyle would say," I tell him.

"Why goll-ee!" he exclaims. "Know which character I'd be on Route 66?"

"The road itself?" I ask. "No, wait," I say, snapping my fingers. "You'd be a bug-speck on the windshield."

He gives me a sour look. "Har-de-har-har, Malloy. Think you're so funny."

I nod. "I know I am, Reed. I might give George Carlin a run for his money."

He snorts with laughter. "Uh-huh. I don't think you even KNOW what some of those words are that he uses in his stand-up acts."

"I do too," I inform him. "I just don't use them. Not very often, anyway."

"Route 66," he says, gazing up at the sky. "I'd be Linc Case. He was pretty cool."

I look over at him. "You wouldn't want to be Tod Stiles or Buz Murdock?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Nah. I never liked Buz all that much. Too slick, like a fast-talking gangster from the roaring twenties. He kinda reminds me of George Raft." He shrugs. "And Tod, well, he was too intellectual for me. Too deep." He snaps his fingers, pointing at me. "Now you, Pete…you could be Tod Stiles. You'd be perfect."

"Eh, I dunno," I say. "I kinda had my heart set on being the car."

He squints at me. "But you're nearly a dead ringer for Tod Stiles. He could be your younger, skinnier, and way more handsome twin brother." He takes a swallow of beer. "Why would you want to be the car, anyway? It's inanimate."

"It's also a Corvette," I say. "An awesome kick-ass convertible with lotsa horsepower under the hood. VRROOM!" I say rather gleefully.

He regards me with amusement. "Idiot. I say you're Tod, so you're Tod."

I hold my bottle of beer up to the light of the moon, gazing at it through the amber glass. "What was up with that show anyway, and their lack of consonants on the ends of the characters' names?" I ask. The moon looks wavy and watery through the glass.

Jim shrugs. "Beats me. Maybe it was more expensive to write in an extra consanant or something." He holds his own bottle of beer up, imitating me. "Batman or Robin?" he asks. "Who'd ya rather be?"

"What are you doing, playing pick the duos tonight?" I ask.

"Just curious," he replies.

"Batman," I say.

"Well, I don't wanna be Robin!" he whines. "He wears green tights!"

I shake my head. "I couldn't be Batman, then. I'd hate wearing tights."

He looks over at me. "True. They'd have to give you extra-large ones."

"You know, that  _could_ be construed as a compliment," I remark. "If one thinks about it."

"One doesn't WANT to think about it," he says. "And trust me, it ain't a compliment, pal." He nods at me. "Okay, you pick."

I look at him quizzically. "Pick what?"

"A duo," he says with exasperation. "Boy, Pete. You sure are dumb sometimes."

"I didn't choose to play this game," I say. "You did." I think for a moment. "Abbott or Costello?" I say.

Reed frowns. "Uh…Costello." He frowns harder. "No, wait. Is Costello the one who rubs his head and goes 'meh-meh-meh' whenever they run into trouble?"

I stare at him. "Huh?"

"You know, the little skinny one who was always getting beat up by the fat one?" he asks. "Jeez, Pete. You  _really_ are dumb sometimes."

I shake my head. "You're thinking of Laurel and Hardy. Stan Laurel was the skinny one, Oliver Hardy was the fat one."

He nods affirmatively. "Okay, I pick Costello. He was the smart one, right?"

"No," I sigh. "Bud Abbott was. Lou Costello was the goofy one. Now who's dumb?" I ask.

"Who's not dumb," he remarks. "Who's on first."

"And what's on second, and I don't know is on third. I know the routine," I say.

"Drats," he says. "Spoilsport." He sighs, shaking his head. "I don't wanna play this game anymore," he says. "You're taking all the good halves."

"Hey," I say with a negligent shrug. "It was your idea, not mine. I've never even heard of the stupid game."

He shifts in his deck chair so that he's looking at me. "You know, earlier I was thinking of my very first day on the job."

"Oh yeah?" I ask.

He heaves another big sigh. "Yeah. It seems so long ago, but yet it also seems like it happened just yesterday, know what I mean?"

I nod. "Yep."

"I was so nervous that day," he says, shaking his head ruefully as he recalls the memory. "I wanted so badly to impress you with my good police work. I wanted to be the best rookie you'd ever trained. I was pretty full of myself, wasn't I?"

I snort. "Yeah, but I think I knocked that out of ya, Reed."

"Within the first five minutes," he says wryly. "I felt like a complete dunce next to you, especially when you asked me if I could manage to follow you to the squad car."

"I could be a little intimidating," I admit. "And you looked pretty lost."

"Whaddaya mean you could be a little intimidating?" he asks. "You still ARE, Pete." He rubs his forehead. "You know, I've always wondered something about that day," he says.

"What's that?"

"Why in the hell did you give me that speech about the squad car?" he asks with a chuckle. "Did you not think I knew what it was?"

I lean back in my chair, staring up at the sky. "I dunno why I gave you that speech," I say after a moment. "I think I was trying to establish the idea in you that I was supreme commander of that car, and you were merely my underling."

"Ooh," he says delightedly. "Sounds truly evil! Did you have any master plans for taking over the world or something?"

"No, just for making sure I'm always the one to drive the squad car," I reply. I think for a minute. "I honestly think at that point I was so pissed at Val for sticking me with a rookie on my last day, that I rattled off whatever came to my mind. I wanted to establish myself as an authority figure in your mind, so you wouldn't question any of my commands that night. I just wanted to get through that night without any trouble so I could quit in peace." I take a sip of beer. "Other than that, I really don't know why I rattled off all that crap about the car." I look over at him. "But by the look on your face that night, I could tell you were impressed by my vast wealth of knowledge."

"Nah, not impressed," he replies. "I was just hoping for a shot at driving the car. I thought if I LOOKED impressed, you might let me have a turn at the wheel."

"I shoulda known you had an ulterior motive," I say. I start chuckling as I recall the sight of Reed's eager face taking in all the specifications of Adam-12 that I spouted off to him. "You looked pretty scared there, Junior, when I was telling you all of that."

He shakes his head, laughing too. "No, really I was thinking you were kind of an ass, to be honest."

"I was, at that," I reply. "And this here, now, is the ONLY time you'll ever hear me admit to that, too, Reed. Ask me any other time and I'll vehemently deny it. I was only being a good training officer for you. Val had a lot of confidence in you that very first day. I however, wished to withhold judgement on you until I saw you in action."

"Were you impressed with me after you saw me in action that night?" he asks.

I wave my hand at him. "Eh, so-so. I didn't know whether to be impressed with you or to kill you. I think it was fifty-fifty."

He muses thoughtfully for a moment, then he speaks, looking up at the sky overhead. "You know, I learned a lot that day," he says. "How to get into a car chase involving armed burglary suspects…"

"The Indianapolis qualifying, you called it," I say, interrupting.

"My shoes squished for two days after that," he says wryly. "And they smelled of canal water."

"Your official baptism by water," I remark. "But you held your own. I was surprised. I was worried you'd do something stupid."

"Like what?" he asks.

"Like dropping your gun and shooting yourself in the foot," I say with a grin.

"Coulda been worse," he says, grinning back. "I coulda dropped my gun and shot you in the ass."

"That's true," I say. "Glad you maintained your composure, partner. I'd hate to have gotten shot in the ass by my own rookie. Ed Wells would never have let me live that down."

"Wells would have never of let EITHER of us live that down," he says.

"You woulda had to get a job in another division," I tell him. "That is, if they'd have you. Divisions kind of frown on ass-shooting rookies."

"Yeah, well YOU might have had to have taken permanent disability leave from the force," he says, laughing a bit. "Wounds like that are often hard to recover from, and you know how the force frowns on training officers taking extra time to recuperate from injuries received after being shot in the ass by their own rookies. You woulda been forced to quit and take a job doing something else, like being a security guard or something."

"Oh, the horror!" I gasp in mock-fright. "A security guard isn't the same as a cop."

"You'd still get to wear a uniform," he says. "And sometimes, they'll even let you have a gun. And you can look intimidating all you want. You just have to perfect that glare that asks folks with just one glance if they _truly_  have business to attend to in that building. If they don't, that glare will frighten them into moving along in a hurry."

"Damn straight," I say, taking another swig of beer. "No one messes with Pete Malloy."

He is quiet for a moment, contemplating his next words. "Then we had that sick child call," he says softly. "The baby girl who got wrapped up in the drycleaner's bag and nearly suffocated to death. She was…she was such a tiny little thing. I didn't see how she could have survived something like that. But she did."

"By the grace of God," I say.

"And the heroism of Pete," he says. "If you hadn't have performed mouth-to-mouth on her, she'd have died for sure."

"I only did what I could do," I tell him. "What I was trained to do. I gave you the hardest job of all. Telling her parents that their little girl was dead. That I couldn't save her."

"I was never so…so upset and scared in all my life than I was in that moment," he says, tapping his bottle of beer gently against the arm of the chair. "I didn't know how to tell them. I fumbled for the words, but they wouldn't come to me. I just kept saying whatever popped into my mind, that as young as she was, she wouldn't respond as well as an older person would. That my partner was doing all that he could do. I just didn't know what to say." He falls quiet. "I kept praying, Pete, that some miracle would happen for her, that she'd somehow revive. And I was also angry, angry that something that horrible had to happen to such a tiny little girl and her loving parents." He shakes his head. "I just didn't know what to say, Pete. I froze up inside."

"You did all right," I tell him. "For your baptism by ice."

"It wasn't easy," he says. "Seeing the parents like that."

"It never is," I say. "That's a fact of life, not to mention one of being a cop. Tragedy in its numerous forms is never easy to take."

"And then there was the park," he says. "To end my first official shift as a full-fledged police officer."

"And very nearly your last," I remind him.

He looks over at me. "I wanted so hard to prove myself to you. I wanted to show you that I had what it takes to be a good cop, if you'd only give me a chance. And I was afraid that I hadn't measured up to your impossibly high standards so far, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and prove my worth to you that night."

"Would it have been worth it if you had gotten yourself shot and killed?" I ask quietly.

"I wasn't thinking about that," he says.

"You weren't thinking at all at that point," I say.

"I was," he says, a bit sharply. "I was thinking, Pete. I was thinking that maybe if I showed you that I had the guts and the know-how to round up those armed teenage thugs on my own, that maybe you'd give me a bit of credit for acting on my own initiative."

"There's that word," I say. "Initiative. You had that, all right. Plus the guts. You just lacked the brains and the judgement of a more mature officer."

"I wanted the glory," he says quietly. "I wanted the glory of knowing that my heroic act that night might have made a difference in your decision to quit the force." He glances over at me. "It was selfish, I know. And stupid. And immature."

"Did you get your glory?" I ask.

He sighs. "No, I got my head ripped off and handed to me on a platter by you."

"And so you survived your baptism by fire. The final baptism of your first shift as a cop," I tell him.

"I wanted to do something, anything, to keep you from quitting the force," he says.

"Including losing your own life?" I ask. "That could have happened, you know. You took a foolish, foolish risk that night, not only with your own life, but also those of your fellow officers around you."

"I know it," he says. "At least I do now. I didn't then. I just wanted to prove myself out as a hero to you, you know?"

"Sure, Sergeant York."

He falls silent again, staring up at the sky in contemplation. "I wanted to help you somehow that day, Pete. I wanted to keep you from making what I instinctively knew was a major mistake for you. Even though I didn't _know_  you, I felt that you leaving the force would be career suicide on your part. That's why I offered to help you, trying in a clumsy way of my own to draw you out, to get you to talk about what had happened to make you want to quit."

"It didn't take much to make me want to quit," I say softly. "Just seeing my partner get murdered right in front of me." I glance over at him. "And it didn't take too much to make me want to stay," I add. "Just an over-eager rookie named Jim Reed."

"How come Val or Mac didn't try to talk you out of quitting?" he asks. "They knew you longer than I had. They knew what had happened."

"They did," I tell him. "The night before your first shift, in fact. They tried to talk me out of it, but I was emphatic that my mind was made up. I didn't want to be a cop anymore. Your first night was my last night. Val and Mac gave up the fight pretty easily, which in retrospect, was awfully suspicious. But I was so blinded by my own decision that I didn't suspect a thing. I shoulda known they had some last-minute trick up their sleeves. And that trick was you."

"I thought for sure that you hated me that night," he says.

I stare out across the darkened backyard. "I did," I tell him quietly.

He looks at me in shock. "You did?" he asks.

I nod. "Hated you and the horse you rode in on. Hated Val for sticking you with me, even if it was for just one night. Hated Mac for going along with it. Hated the whole damned police force for even existing." I fall silent for a moment, then I speak. "But I hated myself most of all."

"Why?" he asks. "You couldn't have prevented Baker's death."

"No," I say softly. "But I blamed myself for it just the same. He had a wife and baby girl that I failed to keep him safe for. Because of me, they lost a husband and father. I wasn't willing to see another partner die like that. I didn't want that responsibility on my shoulders any more. I'd failed at it once rather miserably, I wasn't going to take a chance and fail at it a second time. I lost a good friend on that horrible rainy night. I couldn't face going through it again. I…I just couldn't," I say, my voice hushed. "It was one of the worst things I've ever had to go through in my adult life, seeing Howie Parker die right in front of me, and me not being able to stop it in any way. And then to have to face going through his funeral, seeing his wife and baby girl, his parents and his brother, grieving for him…it just tore me up inside. I was one of his pallbearers, you know," I say.

Jim nods. "I've seen the pictures in the archives," he says. "Of the pallbearers lined up alongside the casket, just before the flag is folded." He falls quiet for a minute. "The funny thing is, if you look at the faces of the other pallbearers; they're sad, yes, but you, Pete…you look truly haunted. You look like you're carrying the whole weight of the mourning world upon your shoulders."

"I was," I say softly. "I was, Jim." I shake my head. "And I hope to god I never have to go through that kind of an ordeal again."

"You haven't," he says.

"No, thank god. It's come pretty close a few times," I tell him. "Too close, in fact. I don't even wanna think about  _how_  close it's come sometimes."

He shoots me a wide, easy grin. "Hell, you know nothing like that is ever gonna happen to me. I've got the luck of an Irish angel named Pete Malloy on my side."

"Some angel," I snort, taking a sip of my beer. "I think there's quite a few people, myself included, that would beg to differ with you on that."

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe God plays a bigger hand in our fates than we'd like to admit, do you ever consider that?"

"I try not to get into any heavy-duty religious thinking, Reed," I tell him. "It hurts my brain." I lean my head back, closing my eyes. "Do you remember what you said to me on that night we first met on the academy track?" I ask him. "Before you were hired on at Central?"

"No, not really," he says. "I remember meeting you on the track that night, but not what I said to you."

"You said that you were hoping to get Central Division as your assignment, that in your opinion, it was one of the best divisions to get."

"Yeah, and my opinion has never changed, either," he remarks.

"You said that maybe you'd get me as your training officer if you landed Central," I say.

"Oh, the irony," he jibes. "I shoulda known to be careful what I wish for, 'cuz it might come true. And horrors, it did."

I open an eye and look over at him. "Smartass," I say. I return to my previous position, my eyes closed and head resting against the back of the deck chair. "Then you said something that stuck with me then, and has stuck with me to this day," I say.

"What little bit of youthful wisdom did I lay on you, Pete?" he asks. "Not that I had much at that point in my life."

"You said it was funny how life turns out sometimes. And it's true, in all its infinite simplicity."

"I said  _that_?" he asks. "Wow, pretty deep for a twenty-three year old kid," he says, somewhat self-deprecatory. He hesitates, frowning. "I'm just curious, Pete. What were you doing out at the track that night, anyway?" he asks.

"I'd decided to go for a run," I tell him. "I'd just come from Baker's visitation and was having a really hard time dealing with it." I rub my forehead. "Originally I'd planned to get the hell out of Dodge that night. I didn't think I could handle being one of his pallbearers, so I figured that if I fled, they'd have to find another pallbearer to take my place. And I wouldn't have to face up to doing it."

"What made you change your mind?"

I sigh. "My sense of duty. I'd given Val and Mac my word that I'd do it. If I didn't follow through with it, I was delivering a final injustice to Howie Parker by dishonoring his memory in that way. So I turned the damned car around and headed back to the city. I decided to take a jog on the academy track instead, just to clear my mind."

"Did it?"

I shake my head. "No. It didn't. It wasn't until the day after the funeral, when I returned to work, that things began to clear for me."

"Your breakdown in the locker room," he says.

I look over at him, a little surprised. "You know about that?" I ask.

He nods. "Yeah, I do, Pete. Ed Wells told me about it. So did Bob Brinkman. Brink said you flew off the handle at him when he offered to talk with you. Then you kinda snapped and lost it, punching your locker and screaming at the other cops. He said you physically went after Mac. Mac ended up handcuffing you…"

"And slamming me into the lockers," I say. "Yeah, he gave me a bloody nose from it." I rub my nose with the memory of blood trickling from my nostrils.

"The narrative ends there," he says. "Since Val entered the locker room and ordered everyone to roll call."

"Not much happened after that," I say. "After everyone else left, I pretty well gave up the fight. It left me…" I snap my fingers "…just like that." I hesitate. "I admit, I kinda got panicky when the cuffs were still on me. I had this ungodly fear that I was going to be in them forever. Mac got them off of me, and between him and Val, they got me calmed down. I think they realized that I wasn't handling Baker's death well at all. But there wasn't much they could do at that time, since counselling was unheard of unless you were crazy. And I wasn't crazy, I was just…upset and shaken, I guess. I didn't know how to deal with my grief. Val put me on another week's leave, and I went home that afternoon, booked a week at those resort cabins up north, threw my fishing gear in the car, and took off. It was good to get out of the city, away from all the sorrow that I felt was pressing on me there. It cleared my mind."

"Is that when you came to the decision to quit the force?" he asks.

"Yep. I made my mind up. I didn't want to be a cop anymore. When I got back to town, I went right to the station and informed Mac and Val that I was quitting." I pause, knowing that I've left out the graveside visit I paid to Howie Parker's resting place. That is something I wish to keep to myself, lest Jim think I'm foolish for going and talking to a grave. "They tried to talk me out of it, but I was having none of it. Somehow they cooked up the plan to stick you with me on that final night, in a last-ditch effort to keep me on the force." I cast him a wry glance. "Good thing my original plan was foiled, huh?" I ask.

He laughs a little. "God, how long ago was that anyway?"

"Seven years," I tell him. "Going on eight."

"That's how long we've been partners?" he asks.

I nod. "Yep. Doesn't seem like it, does it?"

"No," he says with a snort. "Seems a helluva lot longer. More like a couple of decades or so."

I shoot him a mock-glare. "Thanks. Yeah, it DOES seem a lot longer than seven years that I've had Reed the albatross around my neck."

He smiles. "Awk," he says, imitating an albatross rather poorly. "What about me?" he asks. "Working with you has aged me beyond  _my_  years, you know. I came onto the force a twenty-three year old kid, and now I feel like I'm forty."

"That's because you're sitting on your ass in a deck chair philosophizing," I tell him. "With a bottle of Heineken in your hand."

"Cheers," he says, toasting me and then taking a swig.

"Back at ya," I reply, toasting him and taking a swig myself.

"I'm not usually this deep as far as thinking," he says. "You're the one with the philosophical bent, not me." He leans forward, looking at me. "Why is that, anyway?"

"That I'm the thinking one of our dynamic duo?" I ask.

"Yeah."

I shrug. "Life I guess. My experiences have shaped my way of thinking." I down the rest of my beer and set it on the table, reaching underneath the table and fishing a fresh, ice-cold bottle out from the mini-cooler. I take the cap off and lay it on the tabletop, settling back into my chair. "I read a lot," I say. "That might have something to do with my deep thoughts, too."

He holds his bottle up in another toast. "To Plato, Kant, and Sartrè," he says.

"And Marx," I add, holding my own bottle up.

He looks at me. "Which one?" he asks. "Groucho, Harpo, or Chico?"

I think for a moment. "Groucho," I reply.

He nods sagely. "Smart man, Groucho. Although Harpo has his good points, too. I mean, if you aren't free to speak your mind, at least you're free to toot your horn." He tilts his bottle up and finishes it off. He plops it on the table with a clunk, where it takes its place among a few other empty beer bottles. "Dead soldier," he says, then he grabs a fresh one, too. "You ever wonder what would've happened if you hadn't of gone into the police force?"

"Yeah, I have," I say. "Who doesn't?"

"If you hadn't chosen to be a cop, what would you have gone into as a career?"

"I dunno, I never gave it much thought," I say. "I worked at Boeing in Seattle when I was younger. I didn't mind factory work, so I suppose I would've gone back into something like that, I guess."

"What did you do when you got out of the Army?" he asks.

"Tended bar. Worked in a freight shipping warehouse. Blue collar work, you know."

"Blue collar but with a philosophical mind," he says. "Kind of out of place, don't you think?"

I cast him an amused glance. "What was I supposed to do? Gather a band of faithful followers and lead them to a mountaintop, where I would sit around all day and dispense my own brand of wisdom?"

"No," he says. "Instead, you dispense your own brand of wisdom while driving around in a black-and-white squad car."

I nod. "Damn right. Gets the word out faster and easier."

"What made you decide to become a cop?" he asks.

"I had a neighbor in my apartment house that was a police officer. He'd tell me his war stories over our weekly poker games. I was intrigued. For a single guy, the pay was pretty good. I thought it sounded interesting and exciting. He encouraged me to apply, so I did, and got in. The rest is history."

"Do you regret it?"

"Not a single damned bit," I say.

"Not even on our worst days?" he asks wryly.

"Not even on our worst days," I say. "But believe me, there's been times I've seriously considered trading you in on a new partner. One who wasn't such a pain in the ass at times."

"Right back at ya, Pete," he remarks. "There's been times when I've wondered why I was saddled with someone like you."

"Thank the wisdom of Val Moore and Bill MacDonald for that little twist of fate," I reply.

"I do, every day," he says with a small grin.

"Aww, thanks, partner," I tell him. "You've touched my heart." I put my hand over my heart.

"Well, I figured it could be worse. I coulda gotten Ed Wells as my training officer. You're kind of the lesser of the two evils."

"Dunno whether to smack you or be grateful for that little remark," I say. "What about you?" I ask. "What would you have done if you hadn't of gone into the police force?"

He's silent, thinking. "I honestly don't know," he says, after a few moments. "I had entertained thoughts of becoming a firefighter, but I wasn't sure. It seemed like pretty dangerous work."

"As opposed to being a cop?" I ask. "We face danger, too, pal. Maybe not in the guise of flames, but certainly in the guise of violence."

"Oh, I know," he replies. "I'm not saying our job is any less dangerous than a firefighter's job. It's just different, I guess."

"Why didn't you go into the service?" I ask. "Before you went into the academy?"

"I was actually supposed to," he says. "I got my letter during my first year of college from Uncle Sam saying that the Army wanted me. I reported for my physical. They found out I'd injured my back playing football, so I got a deferment."

"Were you disappointed?" I ask. I tap a fingernail against my bottle of beer, making it ring a bit.

Reed shakes his head. "No, not really. I mean yeah, I wouldn't have minded so much going in during peacetime, but during Vietnam? No. I knew if I hadn't of gotten the deferment, I woulda been sent over there. And I had a fifty-fifty chance of coming home in a body bag." He runs a hand through his hair. "I couldn't see doing that to my family or Jean. It just didn't seem fair."

"The whole war wasn't fair," I say quietly, the words coming from my mouth before I can stop them. "We never shoulda been over there. Not at all. It wasn't our fight. Losing the thousands and thousands of young men over there, nearly a whole generation, it just wasn't worth it."

He shoots me a surprised look. "That's kinda funny coming from you, Pete. I had you pegged as a card-carrying conservative in regards to something like that."

I shake my head. "No," I tell him. "Not when it comes to that. Look at how many of these guys that have come back; kids, really, that are shell-shocked and battle-scarred. Ask any of them if it was worth it. I bet they'll tell you no. It wasn't worth it at all." My voice is quiet, hushed.

"How profound," Reed says. "Now who's sitting on his ass philosophizing?"

I hold my bottle of Heineken up. "With a bottle of beer, no less."

He's quiet for a moment. "That's too depressing to think of," he says. "Let's philosophize about something else."

"Good idea," I say. "Let's not get depressed on New Year's Eve. Not a good way to ring in the new year."

Reed falls silent again, thinking. He taps his bottle of beer against the arm of his chair as he thinks. "I've always meant to ask you something, but keep forgetting," he finally says.

"Sign of old age, kid, if you're already forgetting things," I tell him.

"You should know, ya old fart." He takes a sip of his beer. "What was your first day as a cop like?"

"Incredibly dull," I say. "I slept through most of it."

"Ha-ha," he says. "Funny. Seriously, what was it like? Were you like Shaft or something?"

I look over at him. "Shaft?" I ask.

"Yeah, you know, from the movie. Shaft." He clears his throat and begins singing in a not-too-bad impression of Isaac Hayes. "Who's the cat that won't cop out, when there's danger all about? SHAFT! Right on!"

I stare at him, starting to snort with laughter.

He continues. "They say this cat Shaft is a bad mother…"

"Shut your mouth!" I sing. "Hey," I interrupt. "Shaft was a private eye, not a cop. You've got it a bit wrong."

He hiccups, then lets fly with another ear-drum shattering belch that echoes across the yard. "There ya go as far as your career when you retire," he says, grinning foolishly. "You could become a private eye. A flatfoot. A gumshoe. A shamus. A sleuth."

"Are you done yet?" I ask.

He thinks a moment. "Yeah," he says. "I ran out of terms for a private detective. My brain's on break right now."

"Your brain's on Heineken," I tell him.

He nods wisely. "That's true, friend. So's yours." He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, I can kinda see you becoming a private eye," he says. "Peter Malloy, Private Investigator extraordinaire. He can find anything. Lost husbands, wandering wives, runaway children. Missing fortunes, stolen jewelry, pilfered paintings. And on a good day, he can even manage to find a clean pair of his own underwear."

"Hey!" I say. "Watch it, pally!"

"Ooh, you're even talking like a private eye!" he says gleefully. "Gonna use brass knuckles on me?" he asks.

"No, bright lights and the rubber hose," I tell him. "Or I would, anyway. If I felt like getting up out of this chair and doing that. But I don't, since that would involve actual movement on my part. So I'm not."

"Good," he says. "If you decided to use the hose, I'd have to ask you to water the lawn for me, too." He frowns, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Crap. I forgot what I asked you in the first place," he mutters.

"You wanted to know about my first day as a cop," I tell him.

"Hold that thought," he hiccups. "I gotta pee." He gets up with a groan and wobbles unsteadily into the house. He returns a few minutes later and plops back down in the chair, picking up his beer once more.

"Great," I snort. "Now I gotta go." With that, I get up and wobble my own way a bit unsteadily inside the house to use the bathroom. Jean and Judy are poring intently over a book of some sort as I make my way through the living room and down the hallway to the bathroom. When I come back out, I pause, wondering what they are so engrossed in.

"Hey, Pete," Jean says, looking up at me with a glance. "I'm just showing Judy our wedding album."

I lean over Judy's shoulder, putting my hand gently on her back. She looks up at me with a smile, then she turns her attention back to the photo album. "Doesn't Jean look beautiful in her wedding gown?" she says, a note of melancholy wistfulness in her voice. "And Jim…he looks so handsome in his tuxedo."

"Actually, he looks like he's about to throw up," I say. "Or maybe be executed."

"Peter Malloy, if you're going to mock my wedding, you can just get back outside where you belong, with the other drunken fool," Jean tells me.

"Ha!" I tell her. "You're married to that drunken fool, toots. And you're stuck with him."

"Wait until you get married yourself, Pete," Jean says. "You'll look at it in a whole different light."

"Don't go putting dreams of grandeur into Judy's head," I warn. "Marriage for me ain't gonna happen any time soon."

Judy glances up at me, a glimmer of pain in her eyes. It's a touchy subject for both of us, one that has been carefully danced around most of this last year. With a sigh, I ruffle Judy's hair affectionately, then plant a kiss on the top of her head. I see her exchange a look with Jean, one that is filled with sorrow and anger, and I see Jean give me a frown. Turning away, I make my way back out to the patio, as the hushed voices of Jean and Judy trail me. I know I'm the subject of their conversation, but I don't care. Sliding the screen door open, I step out onto the patio, returning to my comfy deck chair.

My erstwhile partner is drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair in time to "Jive Talkin'" by the Bee Gees. He looks up as I return. "They still looking at the wedding album?" he asks.

I nod. "Yep."

"I saw that Jean pulled it out." He sighs heavily. "God, we were so young," he says somewhat sadly. "We thought we had it made, as long as we had each other."

"You still do," I point out. "Nothing's ever changed that."

"Only time," he says. "Only time has changed that, Pete."

"C'mon," I jibe. "You two are still as much in love with each other now as you were on the day you got married. If anything, it's grown stronger and deeper with the passage of time."

"Maybe," he says. He flicks his gaze over to me. "Does it bother you that they're looking at our wedding pictures?" he asks.

"Should it?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Considering your gun-shy attitude towards marriage, I'd think you'd be…" He stops himself, shaking his head. "Forget it, Pete. I'm the last one you need to take marriage advice from right now, especially considering the state my marriage almost ended up in earlier this year." His tone does not invite any further discussion about the state of his marriage. He takes a swig of beer. "Your first day as a cop, Pete. That's what I was asking you about. What was it like?"

"I was scared shitless," I tell him matter-of-factly.

Reed snorts. "You? Scared shitless? Hard to believe, my friend."

"Believe it, kid," I say. "I was shaking from the tip of my brand-new hat to the soles of my brand-new shoes."

"Aww, c'mon. I can't imagine you being scared. You probably wowed your training officer right off the bat."

Now it's my turn to snort. "I was ready to turn in my gun and my badge at the end of that first shift," I say.

"No kidding?" he asks.

"Let's just say Val Moore wasn't impressed in the least by a skinny little redheaded punk named Malloy that he got saddled with."

"You were skinny?" he asks wryly. "What happened there?"

"Oh shut up," I say. "It's called the middle-aged spread."

"Huh," he says. "Musta started in your twenties for you."

"Don't make me get up and come over there and sock you one, Reed," I say.

"Oh hell, you're too damned lazy to get up and do that, anyway," he says derisively.

"So true," I say. I smile a bit. "Val found fault with everything I did that first night."

"Sounds familiar," he says. "I seem to recall my training officer finding fault with everything I did my first night, too."

"I was easy on ya, kid. A lot easier than Moore was on me, that's for damned sure."

"Easy, my ass," he says. "You were like a rabid drill sergeant."

"Had to be. I got saddled with you, you idiot."

"Jerk," he fires back.

I glance over at him. "I could call you all sorts of names if I wanted to, Reed, but I won't. Not tonight, anyway."

"Oh, why's that?" he asks.

"Don't wanna expend the brain energy it would take to insult a lost cause like you," I reply.

"Lost cause," he says. "Have you looked in a mirror at yourself recently, Pete? Now there's a lost cause if I ever saw one."

"Well, we lost causes have to stick together, you know."

He nods sagely. "Indeed we do, my friend, indeed we do. To being lost causes," he says. He holds his bottle of beer up for me to toast, and we clink them together, then we each take a sip. "So what was your first night really like?"

"You're gonna keep asking me if I don't tell you, right?" I ask.

"Sure am."

I rub my forehead and sigh. "It was exhilarating. It was nerve-racking. I kept screwing up the radio procedures. I forgot codes. I dropped my report book on Val's foot twice. I dropped it on my own nearly every time I got out of the damned squad car. Kept knocking my hat off every time I climbed INTO the squad car. My voice kept going up several embarassing octaves whenever I had to speak to a citizen. I squeaked like a damned mouse when I spoke into the radio. I swear to God Val was secretly laughing at me behind my back most of the time. And of course, Mac didn't help, either. The two of them made me so damned nervous I thought I'd never quit shaking. They were so stern and commanding, I was afraid every little move I made would get my ass fired and fast. In short, I was not the debonair and dashing man you see before you tonight. I was a wreck…a train wreck."

"Where's the debonair and dashing man?" he asks, looking around him with curiosity. "I don't see one."

"Smartass," I remark once more.

"Yeah, but ya still like me," he says confidently.

"Not really," I say.

He clutches at his chest. "Ooh, I'm heartbroken and wounded." He looks over at me. "Didn't you have any exciting calls that first day?" he asks. "Or was my first-day experience a special one created just for li'l ol' me?"

"It was specially ordered, just for you," I say snidely.

"Aww, I'm touched," he says.

"Yeah, with a slight case of insanity."

"What can I say? You've rubbed off on me," he replies.

"Trust me, I was completely sane until I got stuck with you for a partner," I tell him. "Anyway, my first day was actually a pretty quiet one, compared with yours. I wrote my first speeding ticket to a rather nice little old lady, who promptly stomped on my foot because I gave her a citation. We handled a lost child report, and found the kid playing in a neighbor's backyard. When we took the kid home, he bit me on my hand."

He grins. "Who was he? John Dillinger, Jr?"

I shake my head. "No, Dracula. Little bastard drew blood, too. Val had to run me over to Central Receiving in order to see if I needed stitches. Luckily, I didn't, but I did end up getting a tetnaus shot."

"I suppose Val didn't get hurt by the little hoodlum, huh?"

I think for a moment, rubbing my chin. "Well, I wouldn't exactly call getting kicked in the nuts not getting hurt," I say.

Reed laughs. "Val Moore was kicked in the nuts by a kid? How old was this kid anyway? A teenager?"

"He was eight," I say. "A very LARGE eight. When we finally dragged the little snot home, Val informed his mother that should he go missing again, she needed to call animal control instead of the police department. They had tranquilizer guns to deal with her beast of a child. She was, of course, offended, but it was true."

"What I wouldn't have done to have been a witness to that little scene," he says. "I can't picture Val Moore saying that. He's pretty strait-laced."

"Ah, Val's not so strait-laced once you get to know him," I say. "The rest of my first shift was pretty uneventful. That is, until we had the bar fight call."

"Do tell," he says with interest.

"We'd gotten a report of a disturbance at this seedy little dump called the OK Lounge over on Pasadena. It was one of those joints where you don't go in without a SWAT team backing you up. Unfortunately, that night, we didn't have a SWAT team, since the SWAT team wasn't formed yet. It was just Val and me, and Mac and his partner, Donnie Fielding. Sure enough, when we walked in, there was a fight going on between these two big beefy fellas. We got 'em separated and calmed down. Neither of them wanted to press charges against the other, so we figured we had it under control. And that's just about when we learned we DIDN'T have it under control. One guy made a smartassy remark to the other guy, and the fight was on again. Only this time, the rest of the bar felt it would be best if we didn't intervene, and decided to dispense a bit of mob justice to those of us in blue."

"What happened?" he asks, looking at me with wide eyes.

"Donnie Fielding made it out long enough to call for more backup. Val, Mac, and I…well, it got pretty hairy for awhile. Bottles were flying everywhere, chairs were being thrown, tables were overturned. I honestly thought I was going to meet my end, right there in that crappy little dump. I think the other three felt the same way. Were we ever glad to see reinforcements arrive! By the time we got it all sorted out, most of the bar patrons got to spend the rest of their evening in the lush and lovely confines of the pokey, while a few of us ended up going to Central Receiving for treatment of our various injuries." I point to a spot on the top of my scalp. "Took ten stitches to close a nice little gash left there from a bottle being busted over my head."

"So that's why you're brain-damaged," he says. "I always wondered about that."

"Huh," I snort. "Look who's talking. You're a walking poster child for Idiots Anonymous."

"What about Val and Mac? Did they get hurt, too?" he asks.

"Yep. Mac had his nose busted for him, his eye blacked, and his jaw bruised. Val got his lip split open, a couple of teeth knocked out, and his arm cut by a jagged bottle. Donnie Fielding ended up having a couple of his ribs cracked and his shoulder dislocated." I smile slightly at the memory of the four of us staggering back into the station, the walking wounded, survivors of the official showdown at the OK Lounge. "All in all, it was a pretty ragtag bunch that returned to the station that night. Our uniforms were all ripped and bloodied, smelling of booze, while we sported the injuries we received like dubious badges of courage." I point to myself. "And that, my friend, was MY baptism by fire."

"How come we never get called to the OK Lounge?" he asks. "Or did they clean it up?"

"They went one better," I tell him. "Someone torched the joint early one morning. I doubt it's missed, either. Certainly not by Val, Mac, Donnie, or I. Talk about nearly meeting your Waterloo."

He smiles a bit. "It's nice, I will admit, having Val Moore back at the station now."

"As Captain, no less," I say. "I think he'll stay at Central now, until he retires. Not that there was anything wrong with Captain Grant."

"No, but Val's almost like family," he says. "I was glad to hear, after Captain Grant announced his retirement, that Val was returning to Central to take his place. He's back home, where he belongs." He tilts his head back, looking up at the sky. "I often wonder about that little girl from my first night," he says ruminatively. "Little Gladys. I'm curious as to what ever happened to her and her parents."

"Probably went on to lead a good life," I say. "At least you would hope so, anyway. That that one brief glimpse of tragedy into their lives was it. Nothing bad would happen to them anymore."

"Don't you wonder about that lost kid from your first night?" he asks.

"Hell no," I say, shaking my head. "That kid's probably in San Quentin by now."

"Maybe he's Charles Manson's cellmate," Reed says.

"Manson doesn't have a cellmate, Reed," I remind him. "He's in solitary."

"Edmund Kemper, then," he says. He grows quiet once more, then he speaks. "Didn't you ever have a call like that?" he asks. "A little Gladys or some other child that you ran across in your duty as a cop, that you saved in some way…and then you wonder later on down the road, how their lives turned out after you saved them?"

I pause, clearing my throat. I stare up at the bright moon overhead, feeling the watchful eyes of Jim Reed upon me. "Andrew Richards," I say quietly. "But I know how his life turned out in the end."

"How?" he asks, shifting in his chair so that he's looking straight at me.

I keep my eyes from meeting his. This is not a story I want him to read from them, from within the depths of my soul. "He was…he was only about five years old when we had our first contact with him. With his mother, really. Someone in the neighborhood that they lived in had called and reported that they suspected he was being abused and neglected. Val and I took the report, then we went over to the house to make contact with the mother. She came to the door, drunk off her ass, and demanded that we leave her house immediately. Val told me to go ask dispatch to request a children's welfare worker be sent out. I did, and by the time I got back up to the porch, Val had gotten her to relent and let us in." I take a deep breath, blowing it out in a sigh. "The house was filthy. I nearly gagged when we walked in. There was rotten food on dirty dishes, layers of grime everywhere, cockroaches and flies…" I shudder. "The flies were so thick in that place you could almost go crazy hearing them buzz around your head. I could tell Val was barely keeping it together, too, but we convinced the mother to let us see little Andrew. She brought him out, and he looked like he was about two years old, instead of five. He was so badly malnourished and so small, his clothes hung on him like a tent. He didn't look like he'd had a bath or a decent meal in several months. When the welfare worker showed up, she took immediate custody of him, removing him from the house. The mother really didn't seem to care, and it struck both Val and I as odd that even Andrew didn't seem to care that he was leaving his mother and his home behind, and going with some strange lady. He never uttered a peep. He just kept staring at us with these big blue eyes, eyes that held so much suffering for such a little kid. The welfare worker placed him at McLaren Hall until we could see if we could track down any other family members who could take him."

"Did you?" he asks, his gaze still watchful.

"Nope. He became a ward of the state…and that's where we figured the story ended," I say.

"How long had you been a cop when this happened?"

"Three whole weeks," I tell him. "I put it out of my mind, or tried to anyway. Other abuse cases came and went, and they all had their own faces and names, their own stories of horror and hell. Eventually, I nearly forgot about him. Then about two years later, when I was partnered up with Mac, we got another call to that same house, again for possible child abuse. By that time, I figured that the mother had moved on, and it was just maybe coincidental that another abuse charge had been lodged against someone at that same house. But when Mac and I went up to the house to knock on the door, the same woman as before answered. She didn't want to let us in that time, either, but the stench…the stench was awful. It was apparent that something had died inside that house. Mac managed to talk her into letting us in and we entered. We found Andrew in an upstairs bedroom. He was dead. She'd beat him to death the week before and just left his body lay."

"How'd she get custody of him again?" Reed asks.

"She went to court with a fancy-assed lawyer and a brand-new husband and bullshitted her way into getting the courts to grant her custody. She claimed she'd cleaned up her act and she wanted her son back so they could be a loving family once more. The judge signed that poor kid's death warrant when he granted her custody. The only reason she wanted him was for the welfare money. She figured she'd keep collecting it, too, even after she killed him. She didn't count on anyone in the neighborhood turning her in before she could bury the body. Her new husband was in on it, too. They both got life sentences for first-degree murder."

Reed studies me quietly. "Don't any of your stories ever have happy endings?" he asks softly.

"Not many," I say. "Or at least that's what it seems like sometimes."

He rests his head back against his chair. "I want one with a happy ending, Pete. Tell me one like that. It's gotta take away the horror of the sad one, balance it out."

I think for a moment. "Clint Sanders," I say. "And Abby Delderfield. Val and I pulled them from their burning vehicle after they wrecked out off of the road into Griffith Park."

"The one you wrecked off of?" he asks.

"Just about in the exact same spot, in fact" I say. "They were only teenagers. A deer ran out in front of his car and he lost control, rolling the car. They were hurt, but not too bad, which was a miracle in itself. The impact damaged the car so they couldn't get out, though. When Val and I pulled up on scene, the car was already starting to smoke. Val busted out the rear window with his nightstick, and the two of us pulled them out just as the car burst into flames. They were hurt, but they survived."

He squints at me. "How's that a happy ending, Pete?" he asks. "I mean, it was just an ordinary rescue. We perform countless ones like that and there's not much to them, you know?"

"Ah, but you didn't let me finish," I admonish gently. "Clint Sanders went on to become a writer. Maybe not a super-famous one, but his books regularly land on the bestseller lists. He married Abby Delderfield and they have two beautiful kids together. Each year, Val and I get Christmas cards from them."

He scoffs disdainfully. "That's still not much of an happy ending, Pete. It's nothing to write home about. It's pretty ordinary. I'm talking about a  _happy_  ending, one with fireworks at the end and a… _hic_ …and a hero's welcome. Write-ups in the papers, interviews on the six o'clock news. A spellbinding, spine-tingling tale of derring-do, of valiant acts and bravery. Guts and glory, you know."

I shrug. "That shit only happens in the movies, Reed," I tell him. "If that's the kind of happy ending you're searching for, then I suggest you take in a flick at the local theater. You'll find your guts and glory there, I'm sure."

He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Yeah, I know. I just get a little tired of people acting like we cops are pond scum."

I lean over, pointing a finger at him. "Look, Jim. If you signed up for the force thinking that you were going to be hailed as some kind of hero by an adoring public, you'd better think again. You'd have been better off going into the fire department. The public doesn't give a rat's ass about us. They'd just as soon spit on us as give us a ticker-tape parade. You should know that by now, as long as you've been a police officer."

He shoots me a semi-angry glare. "I didn't sign up for the force just to become a hero. That wasn't my intent at all. I never expected any write-ups or interviews, or ticker-tape parades." He turns away from me, his face creased in a frown. "I'm just saying, a thank-you now and then would be nice, from the very public we're sworn to serve and protect, you know?" He takes a large swallow of beer. "Some of the faces we see on a near-weekly basis, some of the same people we keep running across, over and over and over again…you'd think they'd learn. You'd think they'd get sick of dealing with us all the time and change their lifestyles." Reed shrugs. "I just get tired of it, you know, Pete?"

"It's always the same until they wind up dead," I tell him. "Some folks you just can't change for the world. And you might as well quit trying, partner. Otherwise you'll drive yourself insane."

"No," he says with a shake of his head. "I know." His voice holds a twinge of bitterness, something that I've noticed creeping into his tone and his attitude over the last year. I recognize it, because I hear it in my own voice just as often any more. The two of us fall silent for a few minutes, his gaze locked on the stars overhead, mine on the lawn in front of me. Then he sighs, and begins speaking once more, his tone wistful and sad. "Just think, if Val and Mac hadn't of decided to throw me in with you that first night, we wouldn't be partners and friends right now. And our lives as we know it would be very different, wouldn't it." He states it as a fact, not a question.

I glance over at him. "Don't get maudlin on me. I hate maudlin. It's too damned depressing."

"I'm not maudlin," he says. "I'm ever so slightly drunk."

"Slightly?" I ask wryly.

"Oh, and you're not?" he asks.

"Not drunk," I reply. "I prefer the term 'gently inebriated'."

"Good thing the three of you are not driving," he says, flashing a small grin.

"Thank God for designated drivers," I say.

"I'll drink to that," he says, and we clink beer bottles together again.

I hold my hand up, fingers splayed. "How many fingers am I holding up?" I ask him.

He squints at them. "Umm…eighteen. No, wait, a hundred and fifty." He sits back in his chair. "Nearly eight years together, huh?" he asks.

"Yep."

"Been through a lot, haven't we?"

"Yep."

"I remember my first homicide," he says. "The dead guy in the hotel. I was so pissed that we had to turn it over to the detectives."

"I was just glad you didn't puke on the corpse," I reply. "Like Ed Wells did on his first homicide."

He begins to laugh, the somberness of the mood a moment ago lifting. "No kidding? Wells barfed after his first homicide?"

"Not after," I correct. "On. All over the poor dead guy. I thought the homicide dicks were gonna make it a double homicide after they arrived on the scene and saw the mess he made."

"Were you Ed's partner at the time?" he asks, still laughing. "Is that how you know it happened?"

I shake my head. "Nope, we arrived a few seconds later. Wells and Jerry Walters were partnered together for a time being. They were the first two on the scene."

"Poor Jerry," Reed muses. "Stuck with Ed. No wonder he was glad to get Stenzler. I'll have to remember that the next time I see Ed so I can ask him about it."

"I'm sure he won't know  _what_  you're talking about," I say. "The great Ed Wells upchucking on a dead body? Never!"

"How in the world did you ever tolerate him for the one day you were partnered with him?" he asks.

"I very nearly didn't," I chuckle. "I was ready to beat him to death with my nightstick by the time that shift from hell ended. And no jury woulda convicted me, either."

"What'd he do?" Reed asks.

"Whined. Bragged. Complained. Annoyed. Irritated," I say. "Shall I go on?"

"I get the picture," he says. "Hells Wells."

"Damn right he was," I tell him. "God, he was such an  _awful_  little shit to be paired up with. I'm normally pretty easy-going…"

"You ARE?" Reed gasps. "Ooh, do you have a split personality or something, Pete? 'Cuz I usually seem to get the uptight personality most of the times."

"Will you shut up?" I ask. "Trust me, I'm a pussycat compared to Ed Wells."

"Lemme guess, he had a better way to do everything, right?" Jim asks.

"And how," I say. "He turned a minor disturbance at Cal's into a mini-riot. Took six of us to calm the crowd down after Ed made some rather unkind remarks about the patronage at Cal's. Apparently, even drunks don't appreciate being called low-life bums. Then, he whined when we had to direct traffic outside of Washington Elementary after the stoplight at the major intersection broke down. He complained that the diesel fumes from the school buses idling nearby gave him a headache. After that, he hated the spot I picked for our seven and insulted me, the owner, and the waitress, all in one fell swoop. Said that the food at the café left much to be desired, the waitress woulda been pretty if she had worn some makeup, and I had the taste of a mule if I thought that it was a fine dining experience."

"No kidding?" he chortles. "Where was that at?"

"Duke's," I tell him. "I had to promise Duke that I'd never bring him back there again. And if I did, Duke had my permission to bean Ed over the head with a frying pan. We figured if he was unconcious, he couldn't complain about the food." I scratch my head. "After that, we took a family dispute in which he made things worse, telling the husband he'd be better off TO divorce his wife and leave her their bratty kids. He ended the shift by nearly killing Brinkman after we backed Brink and Walters up on a burglary call. It was a false alarm, but while Ed was getting ready to put the shotgun back in the rack under the seat, it went off, almost hitting Brink in the chest."

Reed gapes at me, astonished. "Christ, what happened? Didn't he have the damned safety engaged?"

"He says he did, and it's quite possible that he actually did, and the gun misfired somehow. None of us could really figure how that could've been possible though, but an investigation cleared him of any wrongdoing. It was chalked up to just a strange accident, but if Brinkman had been standing a foot closer to the passenger side door of our car, he'd of bought the farm for sure."

"Holy shit," Reed breathes. "No wonder Brink didn't like being paired with him."

"None of us did, Jim," I tell him. "But I think Mac figured it this way: if he put Ed in an L-car, Ed was more likely to do harm than if he was partnered up with someone who could keep an eye on him. That's why Mac only stuck him in an L-car when he absolutely had to."

"I'll bet Mac wished he'd stuck him in an L-car four months ago," Jim says softly.

"Yeah, I'm sure he does," I say.

He shakes his head. "I mean, even if it is Ed Wells, you still hate to see something like that happen to him. He didn't deserve it, not by a long shot."

"No," I sigh. "But neither did Dave Russo." Both of us fall silent as we remember that fateful day back in October, when a pair of teenagers fleeing in a stolen vehicle slammed into the squad car carrying Ed Wells and his partner, Dave Russo, killing the two kids and Russo instantly, and critically injuring Wells. The irony was that Adam-43 hadn't been involved in the actual chase at all, they were stopped at an intersection, trying to hold traffic back so the chase could continue through without endangering any innocent civilians. The kid driving the car lost control, skidding through the intersection and slamming into Adam-43 at over seventy miles per hour, knocking their vehicle clear back across four lanes of traffic and into a parking lot. The kids and Dave Russo never even had a chance, and it looked for awhile like Ed was going to be the fourth victim. It was purely nothing short of a miracle that Ed survived that mangled heap of metal, crumpled so badly it looked like a giant had squeezed the black-and-white in his fist and dropped it back to earth. I know, because Jim Reed and I were on the other side of the intersection, keeping traffic at bay when the wreck happened, right in front of our horrified eyes.

"Probably the only time Ed has ever shut up was when he was in that coma," Jim says, trying to be humorous. It falls flat.

"Don't even joke about something like that," I tell him. "I don't care if it is Ed Wells. He's got a long road of recovery ahead of him, and you gotta give him credit, Jim. He's doing it the best he can, without giving up."

"I know," he says. "He's a pretty tough old bird, when it comes right down to it. Kinda like you, Pete."

"I think I resent being called a tough old bird," I remark.

"Really?" he says. "Hell Pete, you're tougher than a dried-out Thanksgiving turkey."

"Gobble gobble," I say.

He bites his lip, turning serious. "Ed took it pretty hard when he found out Russo had been killed."

"He did," I say. "Just like any of us did."

"No, I think he took it a little harder," he says. "The rest of us knew Dave, but we really didn't hang out with him that much. Not like him and Ed. They were pretty good friends. And it's harder to accept when it's someone you consider a friend. Like Bill Stenzler." He shakes his head sorrowfully. "The first guy I knew to get killed in the line of duty. It was a bitter pill to swallow, you know? Losing your friend like that, so suddenly and so senselessly."

"You're preachin' to the choir," I tell him gently. "It's never easy to take. But you have to, unless you want to give up the gun and the badge, returning to the life of a normal citizen once more."

"I wasn't sure I could handle it at the time," he says. "I couldn't believe it happened to him. It felt so horrible. It was like someone had put their fist through my chest, you know?" When I nod, he continues. "But something got me through that all, something that you said to me…on the day of his funeral, no less. Know what it was?" he asks, glancing over at me.

"No, I don't remember," I tell him. "What bit of wisdom did I preach to you on that awful day of sorrow, when you were to bury your best friend?"

"You told me that if I could get through this, I could get through anything. That I had to somehow find the strength within me to go on, and if I couldn't do that, then I should just quit and move on with my life in some other career. One without so much heartache and pain."

I stare at my bottle of beer. "Did you consider moving on?" I ask.

"Yeah, just for a day or so, right after it happened. I knew if I did that, I was not only letting myself down, I was also letting you down, too. And Stenzler. I couldn't let his death go to waste. I felt it would tarnish his memory if I threw in the towel so soon. I became a cop to do some good in the world, and so did he. If I gave that up, the bad guys automatically won the battle."

"It's a neverending battle, too," I say. "And it always seems like we're on the losing team. But it's worth it."

"I guess Stenzler's death was also a reminder to me that none of us are infalliable," he says. "We sometimes come onto the job with a John Wayne mentality, you know? That nothing bad is going to happen to us, just because we wear a badge and carry a gun."

"And the moment you take on that kind of mentality, there's some kook out there just waiting to off your ass with a gun. Never forget that," I tell him.

"How many funerals have we attended over the years, funerals for friends and co-workers?" he asks softly.

"More than enough," I tell him.

He toasts the sky with his beer. "To those who've gone to the great beyond," he says solemnly.

I raise my own bottle in salute. "Keep the peace, our friends," I say, then we both take sips of our beer. I glance over at him. "You endured a lot that first year," I say. "The sixteen-year-old sniper…"

He rubs his forehead tiredly. "Oh Christ, the sniper," he says. "Yeah. John Michael Harrison. I was pretty upset over that."

"You nearly quit over it," I remind him.

"You talked me out of it, though," he says. "Thank God."

I shrug. "I had too damned much time and energy invested into training you at that point to just let you walk away. Killing someone in the line of duty is something no cop wants to go through, and it's truly a lucky cop that has never had to face something like that down in his career. But you did, and so early on in your rookie year, and that only made it more difficult. Were you more seasoned and experienced, it would have been different. You would have known the procedures."

"I wanted to leap across that table and punch Jerry Miller during the questioning," he mutters, rolling his beer bottle between his fingers. "I still get irritated when I think of how he treated me."

"He didn't treat you any differently than he would've anyone else. You can say what you want about Jerry, but he's fair," I say. "As green as you were, he could've played that to his advantage, and tried to get you to crack under strenuous questioning. But he didn't."

"But you were there with me, Pete, through the whole interview. If you hadn't of been, I don't know how well I woulda handled it," he says.

"You woulda handled it just fine," I assure him. "Besides, you were vindicated when the kid's parents told you that he had a history of mental illness and he was off his meds at the time of the shooting."

"Yeah, but it still didn't make it any easier," he says. "I'll never forget his name."

"You never will, either," I say.

"What about you?" he asks. "Do you remember the first person you shot and killed in the line of duty?"

"Jeff Alberts," I say. "It was in my rookie year, too. So I was also forced to face that trial by fire early in my career."

"What happened?" he asks. "How'd it go down?"

I rub the side of my nose absentmindedly. "Alberts and his partner, Richie Downs, had robbed the First National Bank branch over on Figueroa. They'd already shot and killed a security guard on the inside, plus a customer. Val and I were one of the first units that rolled up on the scene. They came out shooting, and we returned fire. I shot and killed Jeff Alberts. Richie Downs was wounded by me, but ultimately killed by Val. I went through the same procedure you did, Jim. It doesn't get any easier, whether it was me in my rookie year, or you in yours. The shooting team goes over you with a fine-toothed comb, just to make sure that the shooting was wholly justifiable."

"Who was your investigator?" he asks. "Jerry Miller?"

"No, Jerry was still in uniform patrol when that went down," I say. "I was interviewed by good ol' Joe Friday and Frank Smith."

He chuckles. "Friday strikes again, huh?"

"He's like a bad penny, he keeps turning up," I reply. "But at least  _one_  good thing happened out of your rookie year."

"What's that?" he asks.

"You finally quit telling those lame-assed jokes."

"Which reminds me…these two monks walk into a bar…" he begins.

I set my beer down and put my hands over my ears. "I am not listening," I say, shooting him a glare. "Lalalalala."

He shakes his head. "Juvenile."

I grin. "Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment, you know," he says dryly. He gazes up at the night sky. "Remember the day Jimmy was born?"

"How could I forget it?" I ask. "You forgot your socks, thus exposing Mac and I to the sight of your hideously hairy ankles."

"Coulda been worse," he quips. "Coulda been my hideously hairy ass, you know."

"Oh god," I shudder. "The horror of that idea. Thank god it was just your ankles." I pick up one of the bottle caps and flip it into the air with my thumb and index finger, catching it in my palm. "You made me pull over to every damned phone booth in our district," I say. "You and your stupid planning and organization…which was, by the way, very unplanned and highly disorganized, to say the least."

"Hey, you got a godson out of the deal," he says.

"That was the  _best_  thing that happened that whole day," I say.

"Yeah, it was pretty funny seeing your face the first time you held him," Reed says, laughing. "You acted like you were afraid you were gonna drop him or something."

"I was," I say. "And then I'd have to admit to you and Jean that I accidentally broke your kid for ya. Couldn't imagine that would be all that pleasant, especially since you couldn't exactly take him back and exchange him or anything."

"I'm glad Jean snapped that picture of you holding him after we asked you to be his godfather. It's priceless," he says. "Not to mention blackmail, should the need ever arise."

"I'm am of impeccable character," I remark. "Sterling quality. Top drawer."

"Penny Lang," he snorts. "Whatever happened to her?"

"Oh Christ," I say, rubbing a hand across my face. "Don't bring her up. The crazy psycho bitch."

"Seriously, whatever happened to her?" he asks. "You never really told me what happened on your date that night."

I look over at him. "I played it low-key. I made myself as dull as I could. I told her my hobbies included stamp collecting and tuba playing, and I enjoyed watching the test patterns on tv. I loved the music of Lawrence Welk and the movies of Marlene Dietrich. I adored Gone With The Wind, and I wished someone would make ME a dress out of curtains. Funny, she wasn't all that interested after that."

He stares at me for a long moment, then he cracks up, nearly falling out of his chair with hoots of laughter. "You…you…you DIDN'T!" he gasps between laughs.

I shrug. "She hasn't bothered me since, has she?" I ask. "It's the truth, as God is my witness," I say, then I stick my finger in my mouth, popping it quickly against my cheek so it makes the sound of a champagne bottle being uncorked. "It's wunnerful, wunnerful," I tell him, sending him into fresh gales of laughter.

"A dress out of curtains," he says, wiping tears from his eyes. "Pete, you sure know how to show a lady a good time." He dissolves into laughter once more, whooping and pounding the arm of his deck chair.

I flip the bottle cap once more, catching it in my palm. "Especially one I'm not the least bit interested in." I take a swig of my beer.

"Everything okay out here?" Jean asks from the sliding patio door.

"Yeah," I call, since Jim is still snorking with laughter. "I'm just murdering your husband out here so we can finally be together, my love. Just think, with him out of the way, we can be married and live happily ever after."

"There is no such thing as happily ever after, Pete," she calls. "And when you're done killing him, kindly dispose of the body parts in the garbage cans, will you, love? We don't want to leave a mess on the lawn."

"Sure thing, honey!" I tell her.

"Honestly," she sighs. "You two are like a pair of kids." I hear the glass door slide most of the way shut, and I know that she is closing it to keep out the noise from us.

Jim looks at me, his composure regained. "What's up with them two?" he asks. "We got the plague or something?"

I shrug. "Something," I say noncommittally.

He studies me for a moment, his mouth opened to say something, then he stops, evidently thinking wiser of it, looking out over the backyard. He clears his throat. "Duke's," he says, finally breaking the silence.

I cast him a glance. "What about Duke's?" I ask.

"Idiot," he snorts. "What happened to you that day in Duke's."

"A lot of things happen to me on any given day when we eat at Duke's," I say. "Heartburn, indigestion…"

"No, Bernie Ryan and Vince Warren," he says impatiently.

"What is this, a trip down ancient memory lane?" I ask.

"Maybe a small one," he admits. "I was just thinking about that day at Duke's. Here you walked in on a botched hold-up and got shot. If I hadn't of wanted to get a paper that day, I would've been right next to you. We would have ended up facing them down together."

"Precisely what I was thinking the whole time I was stuck in that damned café," I remark. "How absolutely terrible it is that Jim Reed isn't here to help me enjoy this lovely occasion."

"Know what I was thinking while I was stuck outside?" he asks wryly.

"How best to rush in and save your dashing and brave partner?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. I was thinking, crap. You walked in and got yourself shot, thus ruining any fine dining experiences I might have there in the future. Woulda been worse if you had croaked. I never would have been able to have gone back there ever again."

"Why? Because of the awful memory of my tragic death?" I ask.

"No, because I was afraid Duke might not clean up all that well where your dead body had lain. And that would be kinda gross."

"Jerk," I snort. "Remind me that if I die before you, I'm coming back to haunt you, pal."

"Hey, you still owe me a medium rare ranchburger with a side order of chili," he says.

I am quiet for a moment, my gaze locked on the stars overhead. "Griffith Park," I say.

"Pete's example of how NOT to drive a squad car at a high rate of speed around a curvy road," he says. "Man, was Mac ever pissed."

"Sure he was," I say. "He'd nearly lost one of his finest officers."

"Officer, hell. He was mad over the loss of his fine squad car."

"Just for that, I won't thank you for finding me at the very last minute."

"Well if I hadn't of found you when I did, I would have just looked for the vultures circling the next day and followed them to your corpse," he says.

"Gee, you're so sweet," I tell him dryly. "Maybe I shoulda let Wes and Cleve finish you off like they'd planned to, after robbing your bank that day."

"Nah, you woulda had to train a new partner if you'd done that," he says. He glances over at me, his expression serious. "You know, I honestly thought you were dead when I found you in Griffith Park that night. I was afraid I hadn't gotten to you in time to save you. Then you grabbed my hand and said 'Partner.' I prayed so damned hard that whole ride in on the ambulance that you'd make it. You just had to, I kept begging to God, you just HAD to. I wasn't done learning from you yet. And I didn't want to bury another friend. Not as good a friend as you are, Pete."

What he says hits me a certain way, and I draw in a breath, heaving it out in a sigh. I look away so he won't see the emotion in my eyes. "And when I saw you handcuffed and injured in that stupid bank, all I could think of was 'please don't let them execute him in the bank just because he's a cop and made the stupid mistake to walk into their robbery.' I knew you stood a better chance of survival if they decided to use you as a hostage in order to get out of there." I chew on my lip. "And I couldn't face burying another partner…especially not you."

"Yeah, thank God you decided to cram yourself in the trunk of their car," he says.

"And thank God you knew enough to duck at the right moment," I reply.

"I was never so glad to see someone pop up at the last minute like you did," he says. "I think I coulda kissed you at that moment."

"Eww," I say. "If you'd done that, I woulda had to have killed you myself." I look over at him. "And I was never so glad to see someone coming down that Griffith Park hillside as I was you at that point."

"You were conscious?" he asks.

I nod. "Just barely."

We both fall silent, then we speak at the same time. "Thanks for…" we begin, then stop.

I gesture to him. "Go ahead."

He shrugs. "I was just going to tell you thanks for saving me that day."

"And I was just going to tell you thanks for saving me that night."

He leans his head back, closing his eyes. "Steve Deal," he says quietly.

I lean my own head back. I stare at the sky. "Norm Landon," I say.

"Little tests for little people," he says. "I honestly didn't think either one of us was going to make it out of that mess alive." He smirks sourly. "At least I got to play the bad cop that time, thanks to you suddenly throwing me into that role."

"I had no choice," I say. "It was the only chance we had of getting out of there alive. Make 'em think we didn't get along, and that one of us was more sympathetic to them than the other one was. By you and I playing off of each other and making them think we were at odds with one another, we found their weaknesses and used them to our advantage."

"I don't ever wanna play that role again," he says. "It damned near made me vomit."

I rub my hand across my face. "What do you think it did to me?" I ask. "I had to kiss up to Landon like he was the hero of the tale. It sucked the soul right out of me to have to act that way." I fall quiet. "It was even worse to offer you up as a sacrificial lamb when they were hunting for us. I kept hoping to God they wouldn't shoot at you as they were approaching you in that damned bus. I hated to force you into that position, Jim. I didn't want to see you get killed in front of my eyes, knowing I'd tossed you to the wolves myself."

"I knew it was our only shot at escaping," he says. "I knew we only had that one slim chance. I'd do it again if I had to." He rubs his palm across the knee of his jeans. "I'm sorry, Pete," he says, eyes downcast.

"What for?" I ask, glancing over at him.

He shrugs, avoiding my gaze. "I was in charge of the radio that night, I shoulda waited for the return on the camper plate. I didn't, and…"

"Stop it right there," I warn, interrupting him sharply. "It's not your fault. We BOTH shoulda waited for the return. We didn't, and it resulted in us getting kidnapped. But we came out of it alive, and that's what matters most. Neither of us was killed by those two madmen."

He looks over at me then, his gaze mournful. "But I still blame myself, Pete," he says. "I always will."

I sigh. "I know it. I'll always blame myself, too. Now let's drop it. We don't need to rehash that ordeal tonight. Tonight's supposed to be a happy one, not a sad one."

"I'll drink to that," he says, taking a swig of beer. "Arthur," he says with a nod.

I squint at him. "Arthur who?" I ask.

He grins. "Arthur the boa constrictor," he chuckles. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the saga of good ol' Arthur."

"No, I haven't," I say. "And I am glad it was good ol' Brinkman who found Arthur and not us."

"True that," he says sagely. "I don't think you woulda been too happy driving the squad car back to her apartment with Arthur aboard."

"Arthur never woulda been allowed to set one snakey little scale in my Adam-12," I tell him. "We'd of just left him where he was at and called her to come get him. AND, she woulda had to take a taxi back WITH him, 'cuz there was no way in HELL I woulda transported her back with a freakin' boa constrictor wrapped around her."

"Aww, c'mon, Pete," he chides. "Brink said Arthur was friendly. He didn't seem to mind dealing with him."

"Brink can have Arthur," I say with a shudder. "All eight feet of him."

"Was it eight feet?" he muses. "I was thinking Arthur was bigger than that."

"Ask Brink next time you see him," I tell him. "Better yet, call that crazy chick up and ask HER."

"I can bet that cut down on attracting loser boyfriends for her," he remarks. "Having a boa constrictor lounging around your apartment." He shoots me an evil grin and begins to sing. "And then Sneaky Snake goes dancin'…a wigglin' and a hissin'…Sneaky Snake goes dancin'…a gigglin' and a kissin'. I don't like ol' Sneaky Snake, he laughs too much for me…"

"Will you SHUT UP!" I snap.

"When he goes wigglin' through the grass, it tickles his underneath…" he finishes singing. Then he hiccups.

I throw one of the beer caps at him. "If you don't stop singing, I'm gonna come over there and strangle you with my bare hands."

"Like to see you try," he taunts. He hiccups again. "I think my Heineken is backfiring on me," he says.

"Gee, ya THINK?" I ask sarcastically.

"Oh, and I'm just  _sure_  that yours is setting fine with you?" he retorts.

"Damn right. Pete Malloy knows how to hold his beer," I reply. Then I hiccup twice myself. "Crap," I mutter.

"Liar!" he yelps gleefully.

"It was a bird!" I defend. "An owl or something!"

"Nope, I saw you do that!" he chortles, pointing a finger at me. "I was looking right at you, Pete. It was no damned bird." He settles back into his chair, giggling and shaking his head. "Owl, my ass."

"Oh waiter," I call out to an imaginary waiter, waving my hand. "There's an idiot in my soup!"

"Ah, but admit it, you would miss me if I were gone," he says.

"I would literally dance with joy if you were gone," I respond. "I hate you that much."

"Right back at ya," he replies, toasting me with his bottle. "I've hated you since day one, Pete."

"You're an annoying little pain in the ass, Reed," I tell him, toasting him back.

"And you're the KING of pains in the asses," he replies. "When you drew those four days of administrative leave without pay for the Tennison incident, I was happy. I got to drive the squad car while you were gone."

I frown. "I  _thought_  someone else had touched the steering wheel," I say. "My beloved Adam-12. Despoiled by an outsider."

He casts me a glance. "How come you didn't fight your punishment?" he asks.

"I had it coming to me, Reed. What I did was wrong. No matter how filthy or vile a child molestor is, they're unfortunately accorded the same rights as the rest of the criminals we arrest," I tell him.

"If you had known what woulda happened, would you have still done it?" he asks. "Beat the crap out of him, I mean."

I am silent, thinking. "I honestly don't know," I say finally, softly. "Something inside of me just snapped when I saw that little girl just lying there, and knowing what he'd done to her, the evil sick bastard." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Shoulda shot the sonofabitch," I say.

"You wouldn't have, though," he says. "You're not that kind of man, Pete."

"I was the kind of man that kicked the shit out of him," I say. "What kind of man is that?"

"A good man who was pushed to the end of his rope," he replies. "Just like you were with Stuart Walters."

I sigh. "Let's not get into that one, Jim. I'm not in any mood to take a trip down that particular memory lane."

"Me neither," he says. "I almost lost you that time, Pete. I don't even want to think of how close it really came." The two of us fall silent, lost in thought. Reed breaks the silence when he speaks again. "We've sure been through a helluva lot over our years together, haven't we?"

"In more ways than one," I say. "Both good times and bad."

"Not to mention the incredibly mundane."

I nod sagely. "Oh yeah. Can't forget the mundane. Or the boring. Or the plain-out strange."

He snorts. "Like the drunk, naked driver we pulled over a few years back…" He snaps his fingers as he tries to remember. "What the hell was his name?"

"J. Simmons," I say.

"Yeah, that's it!" Jim says happily. "Wonder if he ever found his pants?"

"With the Pismo Beach clam shells in the right front pocket," I say. "What about the little old lady who was sure one of her friends had stolen her mink scarf, and I found it in the freezer instead?"

"Wonder if she ever got it defrosted?" he asks. "What about the former pro-wrestler who was cracked over the head with a beer bottle, wielded by his wife? She couldn't have been any more that five feet tall."

"If even that," I say. "What about arresting Santa Claus on Christmas Eve?"

"And the little Indian girl who wandered away that night. I thought we'd never find her in that dark," he says. "And I found mistletoe, too, to put a cap on a perfect Christmas." He looks over at me. "And Harvey's yellow dump truck," he says, smiling. "The Christmas that you proved you secretly had a heart of gold, Pete."

"Yeah, well, don't let that get around," I growl. "Might ruin my reputation." I pause. "Charlie Burnside."

"He was an ass," Jim says. "By the way, I heard from Al Porter the other day. He really likes working over in Van Nuys division."

"Good," I nod. "He's a good kid."

"Tony Johnson," he says.

"Another ass," I reply. "The time you fell in the pool going after that thief," I say.

"And when you grew a moustache," he replies wryly.

"Hey, I still don't think I looked that bad," I say.

"Well, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder," he quips. "Personally, I think it looked like two tiny, frightened little caterpillars trying to scurry rapidly off of your lip."

"It looked distinguished!" I say.

"You know," he muses thoughtfully. "Just think of all the people we've come into contact over the years. All those names and faces and stories. One of us should write a book someday about all our experiences."

"I doubt the public would like reading about the lives of two beat cops," I remark. "Besides, who's gonna write it?" I ask.

He shrugs. "You."

I snort. "Not hardly."

"Why not?" he asks, shifting in his chair so that he's staring at me. "You've got the word power, my friend, use it."

"Just because I know how to use a dictionary doesn't mean I have word power, Reed," I say.

"I'm just saying, you have a way with words, Pete. You'd write a good story, I bet."

"Maybe I'll consider it when I retire," I tell him.

"I'll remind you of it until you do," he says. "You gotta write our stories down, Pete. They're too damned good to get lost in the recesses of our memories."

"I just said I'd think about it," I tell him. "I can't write our stories down yet. They're far from being finished right now."

"Yeah, true," he nods. We enjoy a few moments of companionable quiet, then he speaks again. "What a year, huh?" he says with a heavy sigh.

"You can say that again," I tell him.

He grins. "What a year, huh?"

"I didn't mean that in the literal sense, you idiot," I say, grinning back.

"You have to quit taking me so seriously, partner," he says.

"Trust me, I never have," I reply. "Not from day one."

"Shoulda known it was gonna be one of those years from the get-go," he says ruefully. "The narco shoot-out in which you almost yourself got killed."

"And your subsequent Medal Of Valor for saving my life in that same narco shoot-out." I hold my bottle of beer out for him to clink. "By the way, thanks again for saving me. Just in case I haven't told you that before."

He clinks my bottle with his, then we both take a swallow. "You had to know that the cavalry was going to come riding to your rescue in the end."

"It looked pretty doubtful there for a few minutes," I tell him. "What with the bullets whizzing past my head and all. Not to mention the bullet in my chest.

"Yeah, in my mind, I had you pegged as dead," he tells me. "I was already planning the touching eulogy I'd deliver at your funeral."

"So sorry to disappoint you," I tell him. "But I decided to stick around a bit longer."

"Damn, just when I thought I was rid of you, too."

"Someone has to keep your happy ass in line, Junior. And that someone is me."

"You know, Jean and I almost split up over that," he says quietly. "It looked like we were headed for divorce." He looks over at me, his gaze unreadable. "Marriage isn't easy, Pete. Trust me. It's hard work. Like Jean said, there's no such thing as happily ever after."

"Tell me something I don't know," I say. "I saw how you went to pieces when Jean kicked you out. I was there, Jim. It was my apartment you crashed at."

He bites his lip. "Yeah, I thought after she showed up at the awards ceremony, all was forgiven, you know? But it wasn't. Not by a long shot. I think…I think she expected me to just decide to give up the force for good, now that I'd won the Medal Of Valor. Like it was some pinnacle of my career or something. Like winning the Pulitzer Prize or an Academy Award. And I didn't see it that way. I woulda given anything to have not faced the circumstances that led to my winning the medal, but I wasn't going to quit my job just because of it, you know?"

I nod. "Yeah, I know."

"I think she thought that if I realized just how damned dangerous my career truly is, I'd quit it, especially after seeing you get shot. But I didn't consider it that way. Being a cop…it gets in the blood, you know? It's not the same thing every day. It's not a nine-to-five routine and I'd go nuts if I tried to take a job like that." He shakes his head. "I honestly thought we were going to get a divorce. And I don't know what I woulda done if we had. Jean's been the only one for me, the only woman I've ever loved." His voice chokes up a bit at the end of his sentence, and I realize that his emotions are still riding fairly close to the surface in regards to the state of their marriage.

I look back out over the dark lawn, somewhat at a loss for words. "The two of you have a strong love for each other," I finally say. "A love like that only comes along once in a lifetime. I knew that you and Jean would eventually get back together. It was only a matter of time before you realized how much you missed each other."

"The marriage counselling helped, too," he says. "Though I hate to admit it. We addressed a lot of issues that had been festering in our marriage for far too long. We cleared the air between us, and got a new perspective on our lives together, a new start." He grins wryly. "Not to mention a brand-new kid."

"Good thing you two didn't split," I reply. "I'd have never forgiven either of you if I hadn't gotten the chance to meet my new goddaughter, Madeline."

"Yeah, who knew that Jean was already three months pregnant with her when that narco raid went down?" he asks. "That was one of the reasons why she was so upset. She didn't want to think of our kids growing up without their father." He takes a sip of beer. "Well, that and the pregnancy hormones. They were driving her crazy."

"But it was worth it," I say. "You got a beautiful baby girl out of the deal."

"Thus speaks the doting godfather," he says.

"Damn right. Anyone hurts that little girl, I'll kill 'em with my bare hands."

"You'd have to stand in line, pal." He taps his beer bottle with a fingernail. "Did Judy finally forgive you for not telling her about your past?" he asks, not looking at me.

"Yeah," I sigh, rubbing my face wearily. "But it was iffy for awhile. I didn't think we'd make it, to be honest. I couldn't admit to her that I didn't want to tell her about my past before now, in case she'd think I was less of a man or something."

"But you did come clean, right?"

I nod. "Yeah. Told her every sordid little detail. The abusive childhood with an alcoholic father and a very frightened mother, and my marriage that failed so miserably within a year. Surprisingly, she was more forgiving of that than she was of my not telling her in the first place. She pointed out that a good relationship is based on trust, and it was wrong of me to not tell her before now about my past. After all, she told me about her marriage and her husband's death, and her son, David, all on our very first date. So what was wrong with me that I couldn't have opened up to her before then?"

"Why didn't you?" he asks. "Tell her before now, I mean."

I shrug. "Pride."

"Pride is a funny thing," he remarks. "Especially when it comes to you."

"Why? What the hell's wrong with my pride?" I ask a bit sharply.

"You sometimes have too much of it," he says. "And that causes you problems for yourself. Pride goeth before a fall, you know."

I stare at him. "That's kind of a lousy remark to make," I say. "I'm not that damned proud. Not by a long shot."

"You have a tendency to avoid asking for help, especially when you really need it." I start to open my mouth to reply, but he stops me, holding his index finger up. "I'm speaking from experience, Pete. The Walters case is a prime example. You couldn't handle what had happened, so you started drinking to hide your problems. It almost killed our friendship, not to mention you."

"And you'll notice that I haven't drank all that much since then, except as a social drinker," I tell him. "In fact, this is probably the first night in a long time that I've even been buzzed."

"No, and you'd have to go through me to start drinking heavily again," he says. "Just in case you consider it."

"I know," I say. "Well done, good and faithful servant."

He snorts. "Servant, hell. Where'd you get that piece of nonsense?"

"The oldest book in the world," I tell him. "The Bible."

"Really?" he asks. "I gotta start paying more attention to that. I understand there's some mighty good stories in there."

"Oh yeah," I tell him. "Like Sodom and Gomorrah, Lot, the trials of Job. There's Samson and Delilah, Moses wandering the desert for forty years…"

"Now there's a guy who couldn't be bothered stopping for directions," Reed quips. "Pete, I probably know more about the Bible than you do."

"Maybe not," I tell him. "I was raised Catholic. We're all about religious mumbo-jumbo, you know."

"You're lapsed Catholic," he remarks dryly. "And most religions are based on what you call mumbo-jumbo. You should try listening to it sometime. You might learn something."

"Sure, how to fall asleep in a hard wooden pew, and STILL manage to make everyone believe you're listening intently," I say.

"Heathen," he says with a grin. "And they know you're asleep when you start snoring, Pete."

"If I'm a heathen, then what the hell are you?" I ask.

He thinks a moment. "A saint," he says.

I begin to laugh. "A…a…saint?" I ask. "How do you figure that, Junior?"

He sets his beer on the table between us and folds his hands piously in front of him. "I am St. James the Great," he intones seriously. "I have performed many wonderous miracles upon this earth, including bringing forth a handsome son and a beautiful daughter…"

"I think Jean played a pretty big part in that, St. James," I tell him. "Not all of that's your doing."

"I have performed many treacherous, arduous, and dangerous tasks in my daily job as a police officer, including risking my life several times over for the sake of innocent people," he continues.

"Does that dangerous duty include all of the times you've written traffic tickets?" I ask with amusement.

"No, but it does include putting up with you on a daily basis," he remarks.

"Ooh, touchè!" I tell him.

"And then we come to the biggie, the granddaddy of them all, the amazing feats guaranteed to earn me a spot in sainthood," he says.

"And what would that be?" I ask. "Figuring out how to tie your shoelaces? Learning to read the code book without moving your lips?"

"It was saving you, Pete," he says rather simply.

I stare at him for a moment. "What do you mean by that?" I ask.

"I'm talking about the two most important times I've saved you in your life, Pete. And I think you know what they are," he tells me softly. "I saved you from quitting your job when I first came on the force, and I saved you from doing God-knows-what to yourself after the Walters incident."

I fall quiet, lost in thought. "Yeah," I say softly. "If you hadn't of come along when you did, both times, who knows what would have happened to me?"

"I don't like to think of it," he says. "But I do, once in awhile."

"Yeah, I know. Me, too." I shoot him a glance. "And believe me, I'm mighty damned grateful you did save me, Jim…not just those two times, but the other times as well."

"I know it," he replies, meeting my glance. "And I'm mighty damned grateful for all the times you've saved me too, Pete."

I shrug. "I guess if those heroic acts qualify you for sainthood, then welcome to the club."

He looks at me askance. "What do you mean 'welcome to the club'?"

"Oh, I'm already there," I tell him. "St. Peter, you know."

He snorts. "What'd ya do, slay a dragon or something to get there?"

"No, that's St. George," I tell him. "I earned my sainthood by putting up with you, Junior, from day one."

"Ooh, touchè, too!" he says with a laugh. He shakes his head. "A helluva year, my friend, a helluva year." He looks up at the sky overhead. "Val's back at Central as our Captain now, and Mac…well…it's gonna be awful damned hard to get used to calling Mac 'Lieutenant MacDonald' now, instead of Sergeant MacDonald."

"I know," I say. "But if anyone deserved to be promoted to Lieutenant, it's Mac, for sure. After all, he's put up with our crap all these years, with very little thanks."

"He's put up with your crap longer than he has mine, since you've been on the force a lot longer than I have," he says. "Never would I have imagined that this is how it would turn out for us in the end."

"Not the end," I say. "It's more of a…a continuation," I tell him.

"I'm getting maudlin," he says. "Right?"

"Slightly," I tell him. "But I'll forgive you this time. We'll blame it on the beer and the fact that it's New Year's Eve."

"Don't you get that way?" he asks.

"Never," I tell him with a grin.

"Damned liar," he says, grinning back. "The glib tongue of the Irishman named Malloy."

"I do have the gift, kid," I tell him. "Don't knock it. It's saved our asses more than once."

"Save your own," he shoots back. "I'm perfectly capable of saving my own without any help from you."

"I pulled your ass out of the fire plenty of times, Junior, and don't you forget that."

He falls quiet again. "Hey, Pete, thanks."

I glance at him. "For what?" I ask, slightly confused.

He shrugs. "For not quitting that very first night," he says, his voice suddenly full of emotion. "If you had, I woulda missed out on having the best friend I've ever had."

I stare at him for a long moment. I swear, I see a glint of tears in his eyes. I cough, clear my throat, blinking back my own glint of tears. "I'm glad I didn't quit either," I say, trying hard to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. "Otherwise I woulda missed out on having the best friend I've ever known."

He holds his bottle of beer up. "A toast. To our friendship. May it never die."

I clink his bottle with mine. "To our friendship," I say. "So, you gonna be my best man?" I ask, after we've taken swallows of our beer.

He smiles. "You gonna ask Judy tonight?" he inquires.

I pat my left front pants pocket. "Ring's right here," I tell him, smiling back. "Right after a lovely chorus of 'Auld Lang Syne', I'm getting down on bended knee and popping the question to her."

"Think you can manage to get down on bended knee, you old fart?" he asks wryly.

"Oh, I can get down," I assure him. "It's the getting back up that slightly concerns me. But that's why I have you and Jean on hand. You young pups can help an old fart like me get back up."

"Don't count on it," he says. "We might decide to leave you there." He points to me. "What if Judy says no?"

"She won't," I say.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

"Were you sure Jean was going to say yes when you asked her to marry you?" I ask him.

He nods. "Yep. I knew it in my heart."

"That's how I know Judy isn't going to say no," I tell him. "I know it in my heart."

"Hey, let me be the first to congratulate you on finally giving up bachelorhood," he says.

"Thanks," I say. "It'll be interesting, that's for sure."

He grins wickedly. "And the good thing is, we're all gonna be witness to it," he laughs.

Jim's wife, Jean, comes to their screen door. "Hey, you two," she calls. "Get off your lazy butts and get in here. It's five minutes 'til midnight, and Judy and I aren't ringing it in alone, you know."

"Be there in a second, hon," Jim tells her. He watches her walk away from the door, then he turns and looks at me. "Women," he says, rolling his eyes. "Always have to be the boss, you know."

"Yep," I say. "Always have to have the last word."

"I suppose this means we hafta get up," he groans. "I don't wanna. I'm too comfy here."

"Let's face it, Jim. We're getting too old to be sitting out here on our asses, philosophizing, with bottles of beer in our hands," I tell him. "We need to be inside, sitting alongside a roaring fire, sipping snifters of brandy."

"See?" he says. "You should write our stories down, Pete. There's that creative mind of yours at work." He frowns. "And what do you mean 'we're too old'?" he asks. "Speak for yourself, ya old fart. I'm eight years younger than you."

"I'm not too old to kick your ass, you know," I say.

"You and what army, Methusalah?" he asks.

"Oh hell, I'm too tired to kick your ass tonight," I tell him. "Let me pencil you in sometime next week, okay?"

He nods. "Sure, old timer. Whatever you say. Just don't forget it now, all right?"

"I've got the memory of an elephant," I tell him. "I doubt I'll forget."

"Yeah," he says. "You've also got the ass of an elephant, too."

"Are you QUITE finished with the wisecracks at my expense?" I ask him.

"Give me a few more years," he says. "Goodbye 1975, hello 1976, right?" he asks.

I nod. "Yep, and what a helluva year it was, Junior." I hold my amber bottle of Heineken up. "I propose one final toast," I say solemnly.

He holds his own amber bottle up. "Sure, go ahead, Pete." He studies me with a somber air.

"To happy endings and new beginnings," I say, flashing one of my famous Pete Malloy smiles. "Detective James A. Reed."

He clinks my bottle with his. "To happy endings and new beginnings," he says, grinning a high-wattage Jim Reed grin. "Sergeant Peter J. Malloy."

_To everything_

_There is a season,_

_And a time for every purpose, under Heaven._

_A time to be born, a time to die;_

_A time to plant, a time to reap;_

_A time to kill, a time to heal;_

_A time to dance, a time to mourn;_

_A time of war, a time of peace;_

_A time to gain, a time to lose;_

_A time to keep silent, a time to speak;_

_A time to weep, a time to laugh;_

_A time of faith, a time of friendship;_

_A time of hate, and a time to love…_

_(Adapted from the Book of Ecclesiastes, and the Byrds song, "Turn! Turn! Turn!," with a few minor changes on the part of the author.)_


End file.
